An Ode to my Dead Baby

O.K, admittedly, that title is a little over dramatic, but that’s honestly how I feel right now! A short version of this story: two weeks ago, my car tried to kill me, so in retaliation my dad killed it. Which was traumatic, because I love that stupid car!

Now the longer version of this story. The car (which I creatively call “the red car”) is the only car I’m allowed to drive (because I’m not a great driver and my parents are paranoid). They didn’t care about the red car/what I did to it, because it was made in 1992 and was probably worth about $50. Apparently my uncle bought it for my dad as a joke, and they just never got rid of it. Over the 20+ years they’ve had this car:

-      The film on the windows has peeled off, making the windows weird and warped.

-      The radio has mysteriously disappeared (but according to my dad, the radio sucked anyway). He tried to replace it, but the car was so old there was no replacement that could fit.

-      The parking brake doesn’t work – it’s been stripped clean.

-      The FREAKING STEERING WHEEL also sometimes goes on holiday and refuses to turn while you’re driving it.

-      Also numerous other issues (yay!)

It’s basically a death trap, and my mom’s wanted to get rid of it for years, but they’re cheap and never do anything until it becomes necessary. However, since it was so cheap, they also had absolutely no insurance on the car or the driver, only on property damage to others. So of course, they decided the uninsured rattletrap of a death-mobile was the right car to give their teenage daughter.

This was a mistake, because I get attached to things very easily. And the red car is absolutely my baby. I learned to drive on it, and it’s pretty much the only car I’ve ever driven. So even though technically, I know all those things above are definitely problems, working around those problems is so intuitive that I don’t notice them – I notice their absence. I was driving my friend’s car once, and I hated it, because, in her words “it actually works like a car’s supposed to.” (Grace has very little patience for me and my craziness).

Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked. This is supposed to be about how the red car attacked me, then threw a fit, then died. About two weeks ago, I was driving to pick up my little brother from his gymnastics practice. Now, at the time, I was having a nervous breakdown because of a lot of things, but mostly because mom had asked me to put gas in the car. This is a dumb phobia to have, but I’m terrified of gas stations. So I had ignored her and hadn’t put any gas in the car, but now it was really low, and I was paranoid I was going to run out of gas, and it was dark, and the gym my brother goes to is out in the country, and I was basically just a wreck. I remember literally sobbing in the car as I was driving, and while I have no proof, I suspect I did something stupid to my car while driving, crying and not paying any attention. Otherwise I have no idea what prompted it to freak out.

So I picked up my brother (having mostly pulled myself together) and we were driving home. We both knew we were smelling something weird, but since my brother and his sweat were stinking up the car, we couldn’t really tell where it was coming from. We made it home without running out of gas (thank God), but when we got out of the car, I noticed the smell got SO much stronger. I’m thinking, “that’s weird” so I move the car from the garage to the street, just in case it issues some iocane-style invisible poison gas and chokes us all, and then while I’m still in the car (in the dark, because otherwise it would be no fun), it starts jolting and making weird coughing noises. I look and I see John by the front door waving his arms and yelling something. So now I think the engine’s exploding, and I get out and run over to the house to avoid the fallout.

No explosion happens (sad). But I turn around and the car is BILLOWING clouds of this white smoke and the smell has gotten so much stronger it is terrifying. Making the wise decision, John and I retreat into the house to wait it out. We call our parents, and when they get home we tell them what happened.

Now for why I’m angry: I specifically explained that I wanted the car fixed and that I would help pay – and they went and bought a new car instead and sold my baby for scrap metal! Now I have to deal with this new hybrid car which, as Grace would say, “actually works.” Screw that!

I got to keep the license plate though. It’s on the wall of my room. Yay.