The car year

There once was a girl who hated to drive. She learned how to drive in her family’s third car, a 1995 Ford Escort sedan, and always felt as though the car was driving her. A run-in with a stop sign and a costly re-alignment didn’t help the situation. The girl didn’t get her license until she was 19, when she took her driver’s test over winter break with only one contact lens and the knowledge that she was in the easiest DMV in her county. She continued to drive the car throughout college and afterward, when her parents sold it to her for a song, thereby avoiding a car payment.

After a couple of years of relatively smooth car ownership (with the exception of a minor rear-ending incident), the girl started to have issues with the Escort, namely not being able to sit and idle because the engine would stop. Stoplights and traffic jams became a source of anxiety and the girl and her husband began to discuss the option of replacing the car by using the funds in their high-yield savings account. As painful as it was to consider using the vast portion of what they had saved (“It’s so pretty,” they moaned), it was comforting to know that they had the latitude to make a purchase. But first, the girl attempted to have the local mechanic fix the problem. Almost $300 and a spiel of incomprehensible mechanic-talk later, she took the car back on the road the next day and promptly stalled out while trying to park. The girl and her husband decided to give it until the end of the week while they did more research. The girl urged the car, “You only need to make it until Friday.” The Escort continued to stall out and re-start every day that week.

On Friday, the girl decided to run to the bank downtown over her lunch break. Halfway there, the car began to shake and the girl slapped the steering wheel, saying indignantly, “I am not breaking down downtown, do you hear me?!” Alas, just minutes later, in a left-turn lane, the car stalled out. The girl immediately put on her hazard lights and attempted to re-start the car, if only to get it out of the road. It took four or five tries before the engine sputtered to the point where the girl attempted to complete the left-hand turn, but mid-turn, the engine cut out again. The girl threw the car into neutral, slowly steered it into an illegal parking spot on the side of the road, and pulled the emergency brake. Shaking, she took a few deep breaths. She didn’t hit anyone. No one had hit her. People could see her car around the corner. It was okay. Except that her car was dead.

Fortunately, the girl was parked just a couple of blocks from her previous job, so she called to see if anyone was free and wouldn’t mind bailing her out. To her relief, a former co-worker came out in the rain, managed to get her car into an actual parking lot, and drove her back to her office. In hindsight, the girl realized that if she gone home as usual, she would have ended up on the side of a back road in the middle of nowhere, so it was really fortuitous to break down where she did. The afternoon was a flurry of e-mailing her husband, arranging a ride home, and finding a reputable towing company, all encompassed by the bittersweet reality that the Escort had finally given up the ghost.

Yesterday, feeling scarily grown-up indeed, the girl and her husband went to two dealerships to find a reasonable used car. At the first, they dealt with Dave, the slowest, oldest used car salesman in history, who tried to sell them a silver 2004 Civic that had almost everything the girl wanted. Because the Escort had, as the girl put it, “nothing automatic except the transmission and those stupid zippy chest seat belts,” she had resolved from the start to get a car with power windows and locks, at the very least. “As much as I like this car,” she explained to her husband, “it wouldn’t feel like an upgrade because I would still have to lock everyone’s doors and wind down windows.” Plus, the intention was to keep the car for a good long time and she didn’t want to buy something she didn’t really like, even if it came down to doors and windows.

They moved on to the second dealership and Khalil, a non-native speaker of English who “just wanted to be pals.” The girl kept her mouth shut as her husband played a good game of hardball, using the silver Civic as leverage and even walking out once. They ended up with a previously-leased 2004 Civic LX with surprisingly low mileage. After years of driving the Escort, the new car was a step into luxury. Power windows! Power locks! Keyless entry! A CD player! Adjustable steering wheel and seat height! Ability to accelerate! And brake! And idle! The girl had never known what she was missing. The only downside was that the car was beige, but the girl prefers to call the shade “antique gold,” thank you very much.

On the way home, while carefully avoiding deer, the girl pondered what to call the car, since she is the type to name cars. A Civic. Beige/antique gold. Reliable. Not flashy. Ned? Charlie? Walter! Perfect.

After the dust settled and the car insurance had been updated, the girl and her husband sat on their couch and watched their DVRed television shows from the night. The girl turned and said, “You know, today’s our second house-aversary. I guess this is the car year, huh?”

#82