A Drive To Remember

or:

The Real Mobile

My relationship with my car is the most open, most communicative, and certainly the longest I've ever had.

In the fifteen months I have owned my standard transmission, four-door, 1989 Toyota Tercel, I have come to learn it's every nuance and become intimate with it's innermost workings.

(And gentlemen shouldn't brag, but I got under that hood before I even signed the title.)

We never argue. We have our differences. But it's never anything to argue about...

"Aw, baby! Why won't you start?"

"I'm low on oil and clutch fluid."

"Oh, I see. Is that why your clutch has been all unresponsive-like?"

"You mean the times you can even find it?"

"Damn, baby! You always tells it like it is."

"You like it and you know it."

"And baby, don't I show it?"

"Well you say it, but let's see it."

...I'll cut that off there. (After that, it gets a little dirty.)

This afternoon for instance, we had a familiar incident. It wouldn't start at all. It wouldn't even turn over. This isn't uncommon. I usually just have to turn the steering wheel into the right position (something to do with the timing causes the engine to rev up during turns) and it will start. Not today, though.

I check and top off all the fluids. I try again.

Nothing.

I'm worried this time, really worried. The oil was incredibly low and I know I drove almost 70 miles yesterday (what gas shortage?) I fear engine damage, or worse.

So I do what any confused young man would do: I call up my father.

"Hey Pops, what it is, what it is?"

"Boy, why in the hell are you talking like that?"

"Eh...my car won't start."

"Did you check the oil?"

"Yes, I ran a basic diagnostic and everything is okay now, but it isn't starting. It isn't even turning over."

"It's probably your battery. It sounds like it quit on you."

"Aw hellz naw, that battery don't even got it's peach-fuzz yet."

"What in the hell did you just say to me?"

"Er, it's a pretty new battery. I expected at the very least another year out of it."

"Well, Ingryd is over here and she says she'll come over and jump you."

"Jump me? Boun-chikka-boun-now!"

"...god-damn nonsense..." (Click!)

So my older brother Miguel's girlfriend (who is living at my parent's house with him (I don't know what she sees in him, maybe she has a thing for bunk-bed trauma victims) pulls up to my house.

My car isn't happy to see her.

"Who is this floozy?"

"Aw, be cool, baby. This is a friend of mine. She's gonna put a little spark into our lives. You know, a lil' EN-ER-GEE, mmm, yeah." I start doing a little booty dance, throwing some seductive elbows and such.

Ingryd just stares at me. I don't recognize the look on her face, but it must surely be awe and respect for my killer moves combined with a whole lotta "Yum, yum, gimme some!."

"What the hell are you doing? Have you been out in the sun too long or something?"

"Um, oh, hey 'Gryd. Let me get my jumper cables."

We jump the car and it starts. I drive to a nearby Checker Auto-Parts. I tell them I need a new battery. The guy says sure, just go ahead and take out the old one. Then he hands me a wrench so tiny that it insults my masculinity.

I hold it up between two fingers and walk out to my car.

"And what do you expect to do with that little thing?"

"Baby, don't start"

"Won't be a problem if you gonna be trying with that."

"Ooh, you bad, baby!"

I remove the battery and bring it back inside. The guy tests it and it's still good. I was right about the battery, then. But that doesn't make me feel any better. A battery is an easy fix. Since the car runs and the exterior lights and interior lights function, I suspect the starter. Shit. That's a $100 dollar part, and a very involved repair, albeit one my father and I can do ourselves.

I return to my car to put my battery back in.

A word about batteries: It is very important to connect the positive to the positive and the negative to the negative. In fact, it's so important that most car batteries now-a-days are designed so that it is virtually impossible to connect them incorrectly due to the size difference of each post.

Basically, there is no way to connect the negative connection to the positive post; it won't fit over it.

Unless of course, you really, really work at it.

Work smarter, not harder, kids.

My efforts were rewarded with the smell of ozone and a festive shower of sparks.
I realized my mistake and frantically replaced the battery correctly. I jump into the driver's seat and try to start it.

"Baby?"

No answer.

"Baby, don't do this to me! Don't leave me now!"

Still no answer. None of the lights will even go on.

"Come on, baby, please! Look, look at this itty-bitty wrench, huh? Look how small it is! Now what am I gonna do with a wrench this small, huh baby? Look at me, it's like it's my first time under a hood, ain't it? But then ain't it always, baby? Say it is, baby, say it is, please!"

My tiny wrench slips from my hand and clatters to the ground.

"NOOOOOOOOO!!!"

The Checker guy sticks his head out the door. "Hey, did it work?"

"Uh, no, not exactly. I think I blew a fuse."

So I buy a new fuse for $2.77 and replace it. The lights work. My CD player doesn't, but that piece of crap was pretty hit-or-miss in the first place. So except for my AWOL CD player, I'm pretty much back to where I started.

I call my dad and he uses his car to push-start mine. It doesn't like the rough treatment, but it starts and seems to run okay all the way to my parent's house.

It refuses to speak to me, though.

I think it's just jealous. The Checker is right next to an apartment complex and some guys were out on their balcony watching me try to fix my car. This wasn't usual guys-watching-guys-fix-their--car-and-have-a-beer observing. Well, they had beer, but they were more shouting lewd come-ons at me than offering any helpful suggestions.

Their cat-calls didn't bother me, but my car was turning from it's usual powder-blue into a livid shade of red. I normally have to start venting engine-heat through the AC when it gets that bad.

There was a girl with them, but she remained silent. Which was for the best, really. That would have been the nail in the tire right there.

Back at my parent's house, I washed the grease from my hands and the sweat from my face. I fell asleep in my sister's old room around 10:00 pm.

It was almost four when I awoke. My car sits morosely outside.

Checker opens at eight. My car and I are both scared, but we know we're in this together. Sure, there are nicer cars that always start up right away and have ice-cold AC, better sound systems and and bigger trunks. By the same token, there are better car owners. Owners that wash their tires every Saturday morning and don't cross vital wires, change their oil every 3,000 miles and don't try to power-slide around every corner whenever it rains.

But this car is mine. I worked for it. I've put work into it. It's given me all it can whenever it could. It lets me know when I've neglected it and then gently asks what I intend to do about it.

My car has always forgiven me.

I hope I'll always be able to say that.

"Look at you, boy, weepin' and wailin' over your computer like I'm already dead and buried!"

"Quit trippin', I am not!"

"Aw, look, he gets embarrassed!"

"Damn, baby! You always tell it like it is."

"You like it and you know it."

"And don't I show it, baby? Don't I show it?"

* * * * * *

COINCIDENCE?

What Is Your Battle Cry?

Zang! Who is that, striding over the steppes!? It is Gurg Frenzy, his mighty hands armored in gilded boxing gloves! And with a spectacular roar, his voice cometh: "For the love of carnage, discord, and 40-ounce bottles of malt liquor, I burn with the creative fires of destruction!! Chinchillaaaa!!"

Find out! Enter username: Are you a girl, or a guy ?

created by beatings : powered by monkeys

WELL, NO. I tweaked it a little. But it did give me the gilded boxing gloves. That last sentence is specifically designed to strike fear and dread into Lauren Henschen.