I did not purchase this shambling wreck. This isn't even the vehicle I was tempted by. For some unnameable reason I have been haunted by the overwhelming desire to buy an El Camino ( a mythical Car-Truck that I was fascinated by in my childhood, a half man, half beast like a minotaur). My car, the "Barbie Jeep"- a loyal 1997 Honda CRV, frustrating in it's gutless dependability and suburban blandness seems to laugh at my diminishing testosterone, forcing me, like a drowning man to seek out the magwheeled life preservers of my teenaged self. Against all good judgement and any degree of common sense I drug poor Tom out to check out a craigslist special yesterday in the rain and dull gray of October. The texts that I had exchanged with the owner lead me to believe that the car was some sort of prized legacy project shared by a father and son and that the owner himself was a freshly scrubbed high school senior. Some kind of magical bonding ritual, only understood by Americans: bondo and fender replacement with deep subtext of male initiation rites. The car turned out to be a nasty piece of scrap, jettisoned into and retrieved from the the edge. The high school senior turned into a mid twenties unshaven white man smoking the very nub and filter of a cigarette without ever removing it from his mouth. I was shown the sad deficiencies of the whole class of car, no longer made and aging badly. The scent of mold, old upholstery, shame and starter fluid combine with the last puff's of the owner's cigarette and his flat brimmed Seahawks camouflage hat (with sticker still on the visor) pushed me into a depression. I am sure there are vehicles that can bring joy to someone, maybe even this one did or could again. It can't make me nineteen again however.
(photo borrowed from craigslist of another car)
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