The Dork Lord
Whipping Boy
One of the curses my mom, brother and I share is that of crappy cars. Unlike
some of the other misfortunes that plague us, like my father's ghost (trust me, that's
another story), this one is not specific to us. Rather it's a condition of the lower middle
class. Living on a fixed income and searching for bottles and cans to return doesn't
exactly lend one to experiencing the pleasure of Mercedes Benz or Rolls Royce.
All through my life there has been a parade of decrepit vehicles stopping by on
their way to the junk heap. Cars like the white Pontiac we christened Christine for it's
habit of constantly breaking down (ironic, yes? This was before we saw the movie or read
the book). Or that tan piece of feces with the exhaust leak; in which my brother and I
would nervously ride in the backseat with our faces hanging out of the windows like
golden labs. Rain sleet or snow, fearing hallucinations or death. None of these beaters
lasted long. None of them cost a lot either, $200-$1,000 range, tops. Strictly A to B
wheels, nothing that'd get you laid, or make it further than Olympia.
By far the most memorable of these childhood death-machines would be the light
green Pontiac station wagon. This was the chariot-on-fire in which my mother deftly
demonstrated the art of the car wreck.
Some friends and I were walking up the hill to play with David, who's rich
parents afforded him every G.I. Joe there was, along with seemingly acres of dense
Washington state woodland as a backdrop for our battles. His dad worked in the bakery
at Safeway and he had his name in the paper for bowling a perfect 300. Hated us.
Still at the bottom of the hill, in the middle of a lazy curve we see my brave and
noble mother cruising down with a busted rear axle. Right rear wheel a good two feet
away from the rest of the car, like it was trying to escape. Even at the tender age of ten, I
was pretty sure something was going wrong. Mom, forever thinking of other's first, uses
the magical hand gesture (AKA thumb's up) to banish all doubts. Even after hearing the
horrific crash, even as my friends raced back down to the bottom; I stood there in a daze
thinking: "Couldn't be Ma, she gave the thumb's up". Pavlov's bystander.
It wasn't until my buddies shouted my name that I ran down myself. There I saw
the steaming carcass of the green beast at the edge of the creek; its progress terminated
by the telephone pole. Ma, a veteran of at least six auto accidents and just as many spinal
injuries wasn't hurt too badly. They didn't even treat her broken rib. The biggest blow of
the whole affair was a bill for over $1000 from the city, for the telephone pole. Insult,
injury and injustice.
Fast forward to summer of '97, I just graduated and had a decent social security
nest egg saved up, and was looking for my first vehicle. Not wanting to make the same
mistakes my mother did (and who wants that, really? When there's so many new mistakes
out there waiting), I decided to plunk down $4200 on a '90 full size Dodge Ram Van.
White and in the old style, not one of those hideous space shuttle things. I dubbed it
"Fuzzy Emily" and made my second generation hippie plans on psychedelic paintjobs
and other customizations, none of which actually happened. Learned to drive, and had
my first fender bender in that whale. Tried to elope in it once as well.
Aside from sporadically lapsing into comas, from which I'd rouse it with
neanderthal beatings to the starter with a tire iron; Miss Emily served me faithfully
(sometimes as a home as well as transportation) for two years before blowing her
transmission on the incline of the Bremerton bridge.
The nice thing about being in a car when it dies is that any argument you may
have been engaged in, even with someone you're engaged to (technically, we had married
three months ago, when she was still pregnant with our second daughter, but we'd only
seen each other for a few days since then, so it felt like we were still engaged) ends
instantly. One second we're in hour six of the silent treatment for some offhand remark
of mine, and the next she's giving me her best doe in the headlights impression while I
attempt to explain why she has to take the wheel while I try and push the recently
deceased behemoth.
Fortunately someone behind pushed us into a church parking lot. We ended up
selling it to a used car salesman for $500, and driving a U-HAUL home. Please note that
this incident took place less than a week before Uncle Sam's Misguided Children
(USMC, or the Marines to the non-believers) decided that my destiny, and that of my
wife and two daughters lay in South Carolina.
At 21, I was a frugal family man with a $4000 bank loan in the shadiest (in terms
of business practices, not tree quantity) used car lot in Beaufort, SC. I hurled 2K at a
beaten black Ford (yes, I know) station wagon, pocketing the rest for furniture. The damn
thing got me to work and back for about a year before eating its own engine on the
SC/GA border. I'll admit this one is at least 60% my fault; first for not keeping up with
the oil changes, and secondly for having the balls to be driving on a full moon. On
Friday the thirteenth of October, no less. Superstitions exist for a reason.
The first omen I recall that evening was after one of the devil dogs (jarheads to
the heathens) in my shop broke the ATM by repeatedly sticking his demagnetized card
in, after I warned the lad. Everyone behind us in line blamed me, naturally, for "jinxing"
him. Not like the guy made Quayle look like a MENSA member, or anything. He was
probably jinxed from birth.
The engine shits itself in the middle of "What's going on?" Too much concrete,
not enough blondes. It'll start, but won't go over 30. With the wife and girls in there.
After a couple hundred dollars in tow truck and motel bills, I spent my remaining leave
days picking out the next hell-mobile.
So I'm in the office of the second shadiest used car lot in Beaufort, attached to the
garage that wanted $4000 to put a new engine in my $2000 Ford, getting hate-fucked by
their star salesman. He keeps having his daughter show me her ass, for some reason.
The end result is the most recent model car I ever owned; a '98 Neon in 2000, for
2k over the blue book. Had to get a bank loan out in town, NavyFed wouldn't touch it.
In the plus column, it lasted nearly five years, carried me, strapped like a pack
mule, all the way to Iowa, and flat out refused to die until after I was arrested for OWI on
my 26th birthday (guess what? Another story). It also survived my divorce and six
months of rotting in the middle of some backwoods Georgia field.
In the negative column, there's the extensive damage done to it by someone who,
up until that point in time was a friend (all tires slashed, both windshields smashed, yet
another story). The funny thing is that I STILL owe over 3k on it (still owe a grand on
the Ford, come to think of it). The good people of Cedar Rapids decided to tow it away
as an eyesore and because of the expired tag (with a tarp over it, and from the southeast
side, mind you) before the repo man could get to it.
For the time being, I'm driving my girlfriend's Tracker. It leaks fluid like a
nervous cocker spaniel, but is otherwise OK. Somewhere in the back of my brain there's
a lingering dream for a black PT Cruiser tricked out neo-greaser style with flame paint
job and the neon green on the under-carriage. Gas prices being what they are; I kind of
miss the left coast, with its decent and gosh darn reliable public transportation. But
looking back, I think Ma might've been on to something with her $200 clunkers. . .
some of the other misfortunes that plague us, like my father's ghost (trust me, that's
another story), this one is not specific to us. Rather it's a condition of the lower middle
class. Living on a fixed income and searching for bottles and cans to return doesn't
exactly lend one to experiencing the pleasure of Mercedes Benz or Rolls Royce.
All through my life there has been a parade of decrepit vehicles stopping by on
their way to the junk heap. Cars like the white Pontiac we christened Christine for it's
habit of constantly breaking down (ironic, yes? This was before we saw the movie or read
the book). Or that tan piece of feces with the exhaust leak; in which my brother and I
would nervously ride in the backseat with our faces hanging out of the windows like
golden labs. Rain sleet or snow, fearing hallucinations or death. None of these beaters
lasted long. None of them cost a lot either, $200-$1,000 range, tops. Strictly A to B
wheels, nothing that'd get you laid, or make it further than Olympia.
By far the most memorable of these childhood death-machines would be the light
green Pontiac station wagon. This was the chariot-on-fire in which my mother deftly
demonstrated the art of the car wreck.
Some friends and I were walking up the hill to play with David, who's rich
parents afforded him every G.I. Joe there was, along with seemingly acres of dense
Washington state woodland as a backdrop for our battles. His dad worked in the bakery
at Safeway and he had his name in the paper for bowling a perfect 300. Hated us.
Still at the bottom of the hill, in the middle of a lazy curve we see my brave and
noble mother cruising down with a busted rear axle. Right rear wheel a good two feet
away from the rest of the car, like it was trying to escape. Even at the tender age of ten, I
was pretty sure something was going wrong. Mom, forever thinking of other's first, uses
the magical hand gesture (AKA thumb's up) to banish all doubts. Even after hearing the
horrific crash, even as my friends raced back down to the bottom; I stood there in a daze
thinking: "Couldn't be Ma, she gave the thumb's up". Pavlov's bystander.
It wasn't until my buddies shouted my name that I ran down myself. There I saw
the steaming carcass of the green beast at the edge of the creek; its progress terminated
by the telephone pole. Ma, a veteran of at least six auto accidents and just as many spinal
injuries wasn't hurt too badly. They didn't even treat her broken rib. The biggest blow of
the whole affair was a bill for over $1000 from the city, for the telephone pole. Insult,
injury and injustice.
Fast forward to summer of '97, I just graduated and had a decent social security
nest egg saved up, and was looking for my first vehicle. Not wanting to make the same
mistakes my mother did (and who wants that, really? When there's so many new mistakes
out there waiting), I decided to plunk down $4200 on a '90 full size Dodge Ram Van.
White and in the old style, not one of those hideous space shuttle things. I dubbed it
"Fuzzy Emily" and made my second generation hippie plans on psychedelic paintjobs
and other customizations, none of which actually happened. Learned to drive, and had
my first fender bender in that whale. Tried to elope in it once as well.
Aside from sporadically lapsing into comas, from which I'd rouse it with
neanderthal beatings to the starter with a tire iron; Miss Emily served me faithfully
(sometimes as a home as well as transportation) for two years before blowing her
transmission on the incline of the Bremerton bridge.
The nice thing about being in a car when it dies is that any argument you may
have been engaged in, even with someone you're engaged to (technically, we had married
three months ago, when she was still pregnant with our second daughter, but we'd only
seen each other for a few days since then, so it felt like we were still engaged) ends
instantly. One second we're in hour six of the silent treatment for some offhand remark
of mine, and the next she's giving me her best doe in the headlights impression while I
attempt to explain why she has to take the wheel while I try and push the recently
deceased behemoth.
Fortunately someone behind pushed us into a church parking lot. We ended up
selling it to a used car salesman for $500, and driving a U-HAUL home. Please note that
this incident took place less than a week before Uncle Sam's Misguided Children
(USMC, or the Marines to the non-believers) decided that my destiny, and that of my
wife and two daughters lay in South Carolina.
At 21, I was a frugal family man with a $4000 bank loan in the shadiest (in terms
of business practices, not tree quantity) used car lot in Beaufort, SC. I hurled 2K at a
beaten black Ford (yes, I know) station wagon, pocketing the rest for furniture. The damn
thing got me to work and back for about a year before eating its own engine on the
SC/GA border. I'll admit this one is at least 60% my fault; first for not keeping up with
the oil changes, and secondly for having the balls to be driving on a full moon. On
Friday the thirteenth of October, no less. Superstitions exist for a reason.
The first omen I recall that evening was after one of the devil dogs (jarheads to
the heathens) in my shop broke the ATM by repeatedly sticking his demagnetized card
in, after I warned the lad. Everyone behind us in line blamed me, naturally, for "jinxing"
him. Not like the guy made Quayle look like a MENSA member, or anything. He was
probably jinxed from birth.
The engine shits itself in the middle of "What's going on?" Too much concrete,
not enough blondes. It'll start, but won't go over 30. With the wife and girls in there.
After a couple hundred dollars in tow truck and motel bills, I spent my remaining leave
days picking out the next hell-mobile.
So I'm in the office of the second shadiest used car lot in Beaufort, attached to the
garage that wanted $4000 to put a new engine in my $2000 Ford, getting hate-fucked by
their star salesman. He keeps having his daughter show me her ass, for some reason.
The end result is the most recent model car I ever owned; a '98 Neon in 2000, for
2k over the blue book. Had to get a bank loan out in town, NavyFed wouldn't touch it.
In the plus column, it lasted nearly five years, carried me, strapped like a pack
mule, all the way to Iowa, and flat out refused to die until after I was arrested for OWI on
my 26th birthday (guess what? Another story). It also survived my divorce and six
months of rotting in the middle of some backwoods Georgia field.
In the negative column, there's the extensive damage done to it by someone who,
up until that point in time was a friend (all tires slashed, both windshields smashed, yet
another story). The funny thing is that I STILL owe over 3k on it (still owe a grand on
the Ford, come to think of it). The good people of Cedar Rapids decided to tow it away
as an eyesore and because of the expired tag (with a tarp over it, and from the southeast
side, mind you) before the repo man could get to it.
For the time being, I'm driving my girlfriend's Tracker. It leaks fluid like a
nervous cocker spaniel, but is otherwise OK. Somewhere in the back of my brain there's
a lingering dream for a black PT Cruiser tricked out neo-greaser style with flame paint
job and the neon green on the under-carriage. Gas prices being what they are; I kind of
miss the left coast, with its decent and gosh darn reliable public transportation. But
looking back, I think Ma might've been on to something with her $200 clunkers. . .
