The first car I owned was given to me by my parents. It was a 1987 Celebrity station wagon. Basically, this car got me from point A to point B, barely. I have had many adventures in this car--the adventures of driving a car that never quite worked right.
I gave my car many nicknames, one of which was the war wagon. My car looked like it had been through the hells of combat. The outside appearance seemed to illustrate this. The wagon, I suppose, was originally white; however, it must have contracted leprosy. Leprosy is an age-old disease that is nearly extinct. The disease seemed to go with the description of my car, an age-old disease that was nearly extinct. The paint on the car was peeled badly to reveal the gray metal. Splotches of rust were evident from miles away. In fact, some parts of the outer shell were not even there!
The headlights on my car were horrible. If there were not streetlights to illuminate the road, then I felt very uneasy. At first, driving on the highway at night was a frightening experience, but eventually, the excitement of not knowing what is in front of you became overwhelming.
The tires the car had when I started driving had little tread left on them. When the tires would burst, my dad would simply salvage free tires that were being thrown away. If I ever had good tires, it would be like a homeless man wearing expensive dress shoes.
The interior of my car, at one time, was not that bad. Almost everything in my car was blue. The seats were like cushions; however my dad had been driving the car, and there were oil and gas stains everywhere. For a while, after driving in my car, I looked as if I had spent a day working in a car shop. I developed headaches from the toxic fumes. I stopped noticing the fumes, after I accidentally poured a gallon of gas in the trunk. I think my brain cells were too fried to notice the toxic smells after that.
My windshield was a piece of marvelous beauty. In the winter my dad would scrape the ice off the windows using a pair of keys. I didn't ever wear a bad pair of glasses, but I can relate to those who have. The gasoline fumes did more than provide toxic fumes. In the winter, black fog would develop in the inside portion of the windshield. I think my eyesight improved by driving that car. On a good night, it would be raining. My windshield wipers would be a bittersweet asset. They would clear some of the rain away, but they would offer beautiful pieces of confetti scattered across my windshield. With the scratches, black fog, and inadequate headlights, I got used to seeing, what some people would consider impossible viewing conditions.
My car was like an old person. The noises and smells it produced were interesting. I named my car the Witch King, because it would let out an ear-piercing screech. The faulty steering belt caused this harmonious sound. The smell of burning car parts accompanied this sound.
The mechanics of my car were excellently intact. My dad would use wires to hold together things that were previously held together by bolts and screws. He would buy the cheapest belts whether or not they fit. He claimed to know how mechanics worked, but he thought the tank for the wiper fluid was the radiator tank. My friends would ask me what the noises my car was making were. I would calmly say, "It is just my steering or my brakes about to give out". My friends would ask, "Why doesn't your car go above 30 mph?" and I would say, "I have no idea."
Sometimes, my car did get me around town, but I was often left stranded somewhere. I have had many adventures in that car, but I finally settled down to the less adventurous side of driving. My recently purchased one hundred dollar car has its own elegance, but will never be as exciting as the war wagon.
©2008 Justin A. Bancroft
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Another short writing by Justin A. Bancroft