cars

Are you in control of your own life? There are some in this world, who like ancient Norseman, use a combination of their genius, muscle, and sheer will to navigate this hostile world to progress in a direction that they predestined for themselves. Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr., Kelly Clarkson, those two dogs and cat in the Incredible Journey... just to name a few.

Then, there's me, less a Nordic explorer and more the blob of blue-green algae the Noresman floated over as they sought their destinies. My movement through this world is dictated by currents, tides, and El Nino. If you are a gelatinous mass of algae like me, you tend to attribute and blame all things on luck and the randomness of the universe, because you aren't willing to grow a method of locomotion for yourself.

To be fair, I've had plenty of good luck. While people lament the unemployment rate, I've never had an issue finding a job, even if it meant loading boxes at 3am or burning myself making tamagoyaki. But, when your accustomed to drifting about and not taking the measures necessary to control the factors of your life, you're going to run into some bad luck every now and then. For me, it always comes in the form of a car.

I bought my first car in 2001. It was a Chevy Corsica that cost me $2000. I didn't need a car at the time. I was a junior in college and had no reason to leave campus. If you have ever seen Trenton, NJ, you'd agree. But, I wanted a car because the second Rob Zombie album was coming out and no one could drive me to the music store. A friend of mine eventually gave me a ride to the local record shop, and even though the album sucked, it was a realization of how trapped I was without a car. I enlisted my dad's help, he did some research, and found me a car in southern Maryland which he drove down to get for me.

I don't think any single purchase in my life has made me more excited than that Corsica. At the time, I was wooing a girl named Melissa who lived off campus in a condo in Yardley, PA. The first night I had the car, I decided to surprise her by showing up at her place and taking her out on a date. Of course, blue green algae that I am, I didn't find out what apartment number she was, and since this story predates my having a cell phone, I had no option but to frighten a woman in the condo complex as she was entering her home and beg her to use her phone because I was "trying to impress a girl." As if a Chevy Corsica has ever impressed a girl. Still, I was thrilled with the car.

The car accompanied me the first time I ever moved, taking me and all my belongings to Baltimore, MD, then a year later, to Boston, MA. In 2004, my relationship with the Corsica had soured. I had been rear ended that winter by a woman driving an SUV much too large for her to control in Massachusetts sn0w. Being a nice guy, I took down her info, but didn't worry about getting my car fixed since the only damage sustained was the parking light. Big deal.

December 23rd of that winter, I was back in NJ driving late at night when a policewoman pulled me over for my broken light. I showed her my registration expecting a warning. Much to my surprise, my registration had been suspended. The car was still registered in Maryland and before I moved to Boston, I received a notice saying i needed to take the car in for emissions testing at around fifty bucks. Like the gingerbread man, I thought they'd never catch me. Stupid.

My car was towed around 11pm and I walked eight miles home. The policewoman was very nice and asked me if there was anyone who could pick me up. "No," i said, brusquely even though there were plenty of people I could have called. I just wanted her to feel guilty for impounding my car because I was too stupid to get a fifty dollar emissions test completed.

After much money, a court appearance, and then more money, I eventually got the car back. In the springtime of 2005, though, there was no pressure left in the brakes and I was too fed up with the car to deal with it anymore. I abandoned it at work, hoping I could walk away from it. Non profit organizations didn't even feel it was worth the tow. I ended up selling it to some shady Russians for $200. Could I have spent $10 bucks on brake fluid so I could get it to a mechanic to see how much a repair would cost? Probably. But once I'm frustrated about something, it's all over. There is no reasoning left in my brain. If I were a parent, I would abandon my child the first time he refused to eat broccoli.

My second car was a '99 Ford Escort. Unlike my first car shopping experience, a car was now a real necessity for me and no one was helping me find a car, save my roommate Mandy who drove me from dealership to dealership. After three days of very rushed car shopping, I found my new whip, which, in the end, was destined to be an even more painful experience than the Corsica.

At the dealership, a college aged girl and her father were looking at it before me. I was hovering like a scavenger bird, hoping they'd leave the baby blue carcass of this car for me to swoop upon. The girl walked around it once and immediately moved on to a cute, red Jetta. Her dad said to me, "She doesn't like it because of the graffiti."

He pointed out that the passenger side had been keyed with the words "F U Luis." Without punctuation, it wasn't clear whether the previous owner of the car was named Luis or whether the vandal was Luis, as in

"F U.

Love,

Luis."

Regardless, my heart started beating faster. This was my dream car, but I had to play it cool. It was time to haggle. Even though Lady Gaga was still three years from stardom, I was channeling her poker face.

"How much for this here automobile, Mr. Car Dealer?"
Not even bothering to take the cigarette out of his mouth he said, "Three thousand five hundred."
"How about $2500?"
"Nope."
"That's fine. Three thousand five hundred sounds very fair for a great car like this."

So after paying for the car with a horrible financing deal and a warranty I did not need, I was back on the road. The Escort lasted from 2005 until 2008 when, in Portland, OR, it just refused to start anymore, despite multiple battery and connection changes. I donated it to a non profit who promised me it would be fixed up and donated to a family who would really benefit from it. But, during tax season when I tried to determine how much I could deduct for it, I found out that it sat in a lot all winter covered by the unusually heavy snow of 2008, affectionately called Snowpocalypse by the wusses here in Portland. The Escort would not become anything more than scrap metal. A sad way to end for a car that was loyal. It's like how your aging golden retriever inevitably becomes dinner that one day that you are too lazy to walk to 7Eleven to buy taquitos. I know you've all been there.

Some of the worst horrors I suffered with this car were alreay documented in a previous blog post. However, I think the saddest moment happened right after I moved from Boston. It was june of 2007 and I was cleaning the classroom where I had taught high school special education for two years. In the refrigerator was an open gallon of whole milk we used for cooking class. I put it in my trunk and locked my classroom for the last time.

Let me first explain to you that I am lactose intolerant. I am not good company if I've had dairy. Moreover, I don't even like the taste of a glass of milk, so I'm not entirely sure why I saved the gallon of milk except for the fact that I hate wasting food. I drove back to my apartment and found the milk had spilled in my trunk. I dried it up the best I could, which of course means, not very well at all.

The next day temperature was in the nineties. The day after that was also in the nineties. I do not have a good sense of smell, but knew there was something wrong by the third day. I opened the trunk and removed the carpeting to find the milk had seeped all the way into the spare tire well.

I was a chemistry major in college and though I've forgotten most of everything I learned for that BS, I do know that the matter cannot be created or destroyed and that spilling milk is not a chemical reaction. Therefore, there's really no excuse for my not realizing that a few paper towels probably did not soak up one gallon of milk.

There were grey curds rotting in my spare tire well and the stench infused my back seat upholstry as well. I tried a variety of home remedies:vinegar, sprinkled baking soda (which turned brown sitting in my back seat), orange and lemon wedges. Unfortunately, all that accomplished was making my car smell like vinegar, citrus fruits, and rotten milk. It was never the same.

After the Escort was towed away, I took a break from car ownership as a jilted lover will take a break from dating. It was the era of a New Armin, one who was so Portland, he didn't even need a car. Between March 2008 and May 2009 i relied on my feet, my Trek, and Trimet public transportation to get me everywhere. In the end, I realized none of my shoes are comfortable, I don't like biking nearly as much as you'd expect for someone who biked cross country, and that I'm that jerk east coaster who doesn't want to talk to strangers on the bus.

However, I probably would have gone on without a car, because blue green algae doesn't often try to change the course they are on. My mom stepped in though, and with $7000 worth of help from her, I returned to the trusted GM company for a Chevy Aveo. Some of its more impressive features include an AM/FM radio (no CD player or tape deck), manual roll down windows so you can get a little forearm workout into your daily commute, and enough horsepower to make the girls' panties melt off. How much horsepower is necessary to reach the melting point of panties, you ask? I already told you that I've forgotten most of my chemistry.

So welcome Chevy Aveo, 2009-?. You can start placing bets for how long it'll take me before I'm stranded in Wyoming again. Here's a picture of me posing with it in the most effeminate way possible. It reminds me of the cephalothorax of some crustacean. Or a big, blue choad.