Truesday: Getting Around

It wasn’t just that it was fairly new, but also that it was a fairly expensive automobile. Not terribly fancy. Nothing that would make national headlines if I broke it in half driving at 162 mph. It didn’t shout obscenities at the unfortunates happily panhandling at the intersection of Lamar and 5th. And it didn’t soak the panties of young professional ladies as they sipped their Starbucks mochas after their morning Powerhouse aerobi-sessions.

It simply stated that the driver was a functional member of society, capable of financing both the purchase and proper maintenance of a solid midrange vehicle. That the driver had some serious upside potential. That based on the social standing indicated by the car, and the youth indicated by his lack of receding hairline: that the dude driving it would someday be manning a machine of much greater substance.

So what the hell happened?

Today, I putt and knock about town in what I lovingly refer to as Red Rocket. Nowhere near the gleaming automatic SUV with sparkling rims and ABS brakes whose pit I used to cock. Red Rocket is a smallish American made pickup truck with a tectonic plate-like map of cracks spanning in all directions across my field of view. The air-conditioner is of no use, unless my version of "conditioning" involved the oh-so-refreshing combination of heated air and bits of greasy, flying vent filter. The CD player only reads “error”. The rear differential screams much the same as the CD player, groaning through gear changes, begging to be released from my employ. The interior is home to clusters of dead spiders, and a rather horrific-looking coffee stain where the previous owner must have poured a whole gallon over the center console, probably melting his entire right leg in the process. The un-appointed cabin smells of sweaty people and animal urine.

I’m pretty sure the sweat is mine, since there’s no a/c. I’ll go ahead and claim the urine too, but it’s so hard to tell sometimes.

Again, what the hell happened?

It all started with Katrina and her winded ass. I could bring up all sorts of conspiracy myths to round out the complaint, but really, it was an inevitable problem that was simply looking for some inspiration. A friendly push. The “go ahead” to double the price of anything which happened to be both necessary and unregulated (for all intents and purposes). The winds died down, but the lifted prices have become as patriotic as a smiling grandma holding a steaming apple goddamn pie.

All of a sudden, that pretty SUV with its tank-mileage was my worst nightmare. Suddenly, it represented nothing more than a lifestyle that I’d been able to pull off out of convenience. Before, it didn’t actually interfere with whatever it is that I actually give two shits about. After all, I have a-lot of trouble remembering to give a crap about what Molly Double Half-Caf is impressed by. By most accounts, my courting of that kind of attention only leads to disappointment from all parties involved. And so I forget to try and bother remembering to impress these people.

What I don’t have trouble remembering is when I’m unable to cough up the extra dough for that super-special fourth Mandarin & Tonic. There’s nothing more pathetic than a drunk who has to bum an extra couple of drinks off of friends BEFORE he has to bum a ride home (from same said friends) because he’s too drunk to drive his fancy SUV (which will spend the night in a metered spot next to the Salvation Army, as any other prized possession would) and too broke to catch a cab. All that compleximicated drink maneuvering was wearing on my ability to maintain a pleasantly numbed and droopy-eyed countenance. That big-ass wallet-drainer of an SUV was totally destroying the preservation of my happy hour buzz.

And so it had to go. A man’s got to have priorities in this world. For bad, or for worse.

Selling a vehicle yourself is a grand pain in the ass. Nothing quite like meeting up with strangers in the Barton Creek mall parking lot over your lunch break to drive aimlessly around while fielding kickass questions such as [while ruthlessly mashing the pedal, causing the entire truck to violently convulse] “so, are the brakes still good?” Or, “can I make monthly payments until I get my Mexico arrangements all straightened out?” And the coolest of them all, “I know you’re asking ten, but my uncle said he could get me one in Milwaukee for eight, so would you take my ’83 Ford Escort station wagon plus a check for seven?”

Sonsabitches.

After a while, I felt like I was trying to pawn my current girlfriend off on other people before notifying her that we were through. Like I was parading her in front of suitors who were offering me a buy-out dowry, when she thought we were just innocently catching a movie. As if while buying the popcorn I was winking at the kid behind the counter, offering him a trade of two tubs and some Skittles in exchange for her. It all felt so wrong. Dirty, almost scandalous. I started to fear that she’d catch on and start intentionally sabotaging the parking lot test drives by skipping songs on the CD player, lurching between gears, or squealing during the predictably annoying studdered-brakes maneuver.

This metaphor crosses some really, really delicate lines. Must be a sign of quality.

And so, as a product of that fear, I simply took her to Carmax. That place is like that really beefy dude who used to mow lawns in your neighborhood during your high school years. He’s always around, a tad (if not a-lot) creepy, and always willing to swoop in and steal whatever you’re dating at the time. Normally he’s a serious problem because his looming doesn’t go unnoticed by your lady, and every time the two of you drive by him while he’s out there cutting a lawn in nothing but soccer shorts, massive pectorals and a six-pack, she’s ogling right back. And you’re usually like “man, I fucking hate that dude. And his stubbly-square chin.”

But then the day comes when you and the missus are tired of each other's shit. She’s worn out her welcome, and she’s looking for an out too. But not until she’s done punishing you for wasting her “precious time”, or whatever other delusion she might operate under. You'd prefer to part quick like your future and good credit. In comes your clever use of lawn boy. Twenty bucks has him mowing neighbor's grass while you argue with your lady out front. Pretend to go inside for a call, fax, or donkey punch. Don't bother going back outside. Just stage it up and walk away. He did all the footwork for you, you're just unclippng the leash. The transaction only takes about thirty minutes. Just like Carmax.

And just like those jacked-up relationships of yore, you simply find yourself in another one. And mine, this time, is decidedly less glamorous. Not that I need all the bling, bump, and whatnot. After all, Red Rocket’s got MAD personality, yo. But some a/c would certainly be welcomed. That, and the four songs I’ve heard repeatedly cycled through the local radio stations for the past three months are a constant and unnecessary reminder of how bland and sadly predictable our grand land is.

Okay. Now this metaphor has totally taken a left on me. I don’t think my girlfriend is even remotely fond of Red Rocket, but I the point is floating out there somewhere. This word bucket no longer holds concept water. Damnit.

Screw it. I should just shut up and get a bike.