But anyway, when he decided to do everything all at once to make sure he really liked working with computers, he wanted to live back with my parents. Ok, they said. But then they suddenly needed three cars because my mom teaches art, my dad fixes elevators, and now my bro needed to go to class and work. I had been driving my parents' old car around Maryland, a gold 2000 Ford Taurus station wagon with a large dent in the passenger side door, a left sideview mirror that dangled from wires once every year or so (marine epoxy kept it more completely attached to the car the rest of the time), and a radio antenna that made a wretched groaning noise whenever it retracted. And the front passenger seat had a stubborn seatbelt I referred to as my kidnapping seatbelt. Very few people could undo it themselves. I liked this car. No one would EVER steal it, which is a legitimate concern when you go to school in a place where 4 Honda Civics were stolen/stripped for parts in a month while parked in campus parking lots.
This was the Marauder Wagon II. The Marauder Wagon I was a maroon Ford Taurus station wagon from 1987 with no hubcaps, automatic locks that couldn't be manually overridden because they had fallen into the door for no reason (maybe they were tired?), broken air conditioning, no parking brake, and the molding had fallen off in one place on the outside and one place on the inside. Both Marauder Wagons were steal-proof. Ford is not known for making cars that one can soup up and drag race on deserted highways.
But when my brother needed a car, there was a good deal of hemming and hawing. My mom drove her small pickup truck - along with teaching art, she also runs a gardening program at the school, my dad drove his Honda CRV, and I had the Marauder Wagon II. My dad said, "I think it's time to get another car. HungryGrad, would you like to get a new car with us, so we can get a sweet 2-fer deal?" I said, "Let me think about it."
(Cue more hemming and hawing, on my part.)
I said, "Ok." I had been sinking about 1-2k a year into repairs for the Marauder Wagon II, which were irritating me because they really add up. Every time I saw my savings start to creep up, BAM. Something else broke. Like my starter motor. Can't start the effing car without a starter motor, can you? Nope. And the ball joints. Wouldn't it be nice if I was driving down the highway and my front wheels popped off the chassis? Hells to the no. They were all things like that, things you can't ignore by turning the radio louder and convincing yourself that just because you can no longer hear the odd noise over the gangsta rap it no longer exists.
So, I got a Toyota Corolla. Just like everyone else in the US. It's dark grey, which is completely unexciting. Toyota does some completely shitastic colors, and if anyone is a worthwhile candidate for a neon yellow/magenta/pumpkin orange/green and sparkly vehicle, it's me. I rarely go more than the speed limit, so police have no interest in me. Cruise control is my friend, and I like saving gas. But Toyota is run by a bunch of morose stuffed shirts, apparently.
But even though my car is grey, and it's just like everyone else's, I don't like having a car without a name. I figured, hey, it'll come to me. I'll figure something out. Calling the last two cars I drove Marauders I and II was ironic and gave the cars an edge belying their soccermom-tastic chassis. It made their dents and nonhubcapness badges of badassery, not signs of their eventual scrap metal destination.
This is a bit of a crisis. I don't know what to call my car! Arrghhh!
Danny has a used Scion xB which we call The Bread Truck, or The Toaster, or The Car We Have Yet to Take Out of the Box. But my car, my little grey car, I have no name for it.
Maybe I'll call it Skeezix.
Hmmm.
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