The Decision of an Hour on a Full Cold Moon

I've tried to make it dramatic.  I've spent the last half hour writing about going car shopping yesterday, and it looked to be another half hour of anti-drama.  I tried to make it interesting.  Which was stupid.  I lay in bed this morning thinking "make it metaphorical for. . . ."  For what?  Why?  If there was a dramatic event somewhere to hang some meaning onto. . . .

Drama.

So I'll just tell it without the. . . metaphoricity, without the . . . drama.

R.I.P.  Volvo GL.  1985-2011.  Almost 300,000 miles.  It is what remained of a busted marriage.  For me, that is.  It was the best looking car in town after I added the Thule surf racks on top.  Everyone knew the car.  Sometimes that was not so good.  Driving like a maniac over the same shitty stretch of road to work day after day had won me no awards.  When I'd leave work, I'd sometimes announce, "If you see a white Volvo with racks on top, get out of the way."

"Yea, I know.  I was behind you the other day."

"Just imagine if I had something that really ran," I'd retort.

"When are you going to get a decent car?"

"You kidding me?  That car is great."

My neighbors have told me that they know when I'm coming home.  I guess my car made a distinct sound, a combination of bad exhaust, loose hubcaps, and bad brakes.

"It is like me," I'd say, "beautiful to look at but shot all to hell on the inside."

"Neither of you are that beautiful.  You need a new car."

I don't think my neighbors appreciate me the way I'd like.

Much to my mother's great relief, I got her to drive me around to car lots yesterday.  There is no greater waste of time, I think, than looking at cars with greedy salesman trying to get into your pants.  But there I was on the nicest day of the year, blue skies, air like "a hand upon your cheek," sitting next to my mother in her Camry listening to her go on about warrantees.

"Mom, I don't know shit about cars, but this probably isn't the way to buy one.  I probably need to do some research, find out what is good, what I should pay. . . ."

"You are getting a car today."

It was like being in the seventh grade all over again when she would take me clothes shopping or worse, taking me to a barber shop.  Overcome with lethargy, my head fell back against the seat as we drove from place to place.  At each stop, she'd take on the salesperson talking gibberish and nonsense about trade-ins and warrantees.

"What kind of trade-in you giving?"

The salesman's head would begin to spin.

"Depends on what kind of car it is.  It varies.  What kind of car are you trading?"

This was the fun part for me.  My mother would boldly say, "A Volvo."

"What make and year?"

My mother paused before she'd say, "Don't you have a deal no matter what kind of car as long as you it runs you give some money?"  I would stand to the side and grin sheepishly.

"1985," I'd say.  "It has almost 300,000 miles."

My mother would look daunted then, but not defeated.  "What kind of warrantee you giving?  You got Carfax?"

The day was waxing, waning.  I'd never get it back.  We'd get climb into the Camry once again.

"Maybe I'll just get some brakes put on it and see about getting the tie rods replaced."

"Honey, you are not driving that car any more.  It's not safe."

Shit--here I've gone and done it more, written too long about buying a goddamned car.  This could go on forever.  I can't delete it again, though.  I have things to do.  Many.  Too many.  I mean, yesterday. . . I bought a car.  I wonder what it means on a Full Snow Moon.  I bought it because it felt good when I sat in it.  I bought it because I had to.  I bought it 'cause it was fairly cool.  My mother drove the deal, got the warrantee, drove the poor boy from Finland mad.  I think he gave us the price so he could get on with his life.

I never even looked under the hood.  What the hell would I have seen?  Nothing I know about.  But driving home was. . . .  It has a.c. and heat.  The stereo works.  For the first time in my life (I kid not), I have air bags.  And bunches of them.  For the first time, I can open my door without putting the key in the lock.  The paint is all there, intact and shiny.  The wheels do not wobble.  And now I can actually drive you when we go to lunch.  I don't have to rent a car to go out of town.  I can let the valet park the car.  The list is endless.

And I still don't have car payments.

Oh, yea.  I got a 2005 Nissan Xterra.  Man. . . it is cool.