Why Can't We Be Friends?

I know that Paul’s car hates me. I now see the pattern in seemingly unrelated incidents of the past 5 years. The jigsaw puzzle is complete. I can’t believe I didn’t catch on before because, now, it couldn’t be clearer. I GET IT!!! I FINALLY GET IT!!!

This was so unexpected. I’ve never felt hostility from any of the cars in my past, and some of them had good reason to be hostile. I might as well admit that I was probably the only person in a high school class of over 600 who required remedial behind-the-wheel Driver Training. To this day, the rear-view mirror remains a mystery to me so I just back up and hope. The first and last time I drove my dad’s Dodge Dart to West High, I had a showdown with the manual transmission while trying to turn left into the parking lot and wound up getting a group of guys to push my car off the road, which wasn’t all bad.

When I started college, Dad got me a cute, red and white Rambler American (with an automatic transmission) to drive to and from U.C. That little car taught me important stuff like how slow you have to go to avoid getting a speeding ticket in a school zone and when the gas gauge reads empty for long enough, it really means business. One night after a sorority meeting, I couldn’t get the car to start. After a number of unsuccessful tries, I did what any intelligent, confident, independent young woman would have done - I called my dad. When he arrived, he opened the hood (something that never crossed my mind) and found that someone had stolen my battery. At least it wasn’t my fault.

While I wasn’t the perfect owner, I know that Rambler loved me. I’m also certain it missed me desperately when I moved on campus and my car was passed along to my brother who was running his own personal Demolition Derby at the time. (The poor baby ended its days as a red and white car pancake in the salvage yard.) When Paul and I got married, my dad gave us his Javelin. Later we acquired my sister-in-law’s used Oldsmobile Cutlass (aka “The Cutloose”) which had a temperamental carburetor and paint problems – sort of chronic car eczema. I got on well with both of them especially because, with a used car, someone else gives it the first scratch(es) or dent(s).

Our first new car purchase was a little, brown Datsun B210 – the kind of car that today’s big, hulking SUV’s (aka Urban Assault Vehicles) eat for breakfast. It ran well and had more interior space than you would imagine. One Sunday, we took it to a flea market and, on the trip home, that car held a large birdcage on a stand, a baker’s scale with a marble base, a fireplace screen, a side chair, one toddler and four adults. Of course, we were all young and flexible then. Anyway, after I bent the Datsun’s front bumper on another car, that B210 never gave me even one mean look and I appreciated it.

Before John was born, we moved into the family car market, purchasing our first Volvo. All our Volvos were reliable, sturdy and safe, even in an accident. By the way, here’s my Tip of the Day: Don’t have an accident with a 2-year-old in the car unless you want to hear a squeaky voice parroting, “Volvo broke! Volvo broke!” about 4000 times. Like Timex watches, Volvos do take a licking and keep on ticking – our original one ran for over 20 years, surviving both my accident and almost total immersion in a flooded parking lot although the water somehow made the seat sink to where I could no longer see over the steering wheel. A Volvo’s only real fault is that it doesn’t do well in snow; but, hey, we all have faults. When the boys were in elementary school, we just took some extra personal snow days.

My nominee for the all-around, user friendly, roll-with-the-punches car, however, is the Dodge MiniVan – we are on our third one. Ours can hold 2 each of passengers, tandem bikes and golf bags plus a pile of luggage and accessories. Best of all, a MiniVan doesn’t pout if you scratch its side on a grocery cart, it doesn’t get bitter if you crease its door on a concrete pole and it doesn’t get snotty if you pull into the garage without remembering that the bike rack is attached to its roof. (By the way, the five most welcome words in the English language are, “We can buff it out.”) Minivans are also very good in the snow although, at this stage of my life, I don’t drive in snow any more, at least not on purpose.

When we moved, we sold our original Volvo so Paul would have a better car for his longer, hillier commute to the office. The black Lexus was the first car he got to drive when it was brand new and it is definitely the coolest looking car we’ve ever owned. With the MiniVan to do all the heavy lifting, the Lexus has a very cushy lifestyle with us. You would expect it to be grateful and congenial, and it is – at least with Paul.

Every time I drive it, however, and even when I just ride in it, something bad happens. Paul can wear sunscreen in the Lexus and it’s fine; but, wherever my sunscreened arms and legs touch the seat or the armrest, it turns yellow. There is something weird about its lights so that, after I drive it, the lights are always off when they should be on and on when they should be off even though I NEVER deliberately touch the lights. Somehow, whenever it spends the day with me, it picks up a souvenir without telling me – something like a gray scrape on the front bumper, a yellow mark on the back near the gas tank or a scratch the length of one side made by some vandal with a key. Frankly, you’d think a car like that would have some street smarts and display a few self-defense skills, but I guess that’s too much to ask. And, yes, I was driving it when it was traumatized by having its trunk smashed in; but, somebody slid into me, and for the first time in my life THAT WASN’T MY FAULT.

Until yesterday, I held out hope that I was wrong about the Lexus’s attitude towards me. Maybe I was being a little paranoid. Paul took my car in for an oil change so I drove the Lexus for the day. He pulled it out of the garage so I wouldn’t have any issues there. When I had to park on the street near the outdoor education center where I teach, I eased it oh-so-gently alongside the curb. I put off a trip to Kroger’s, not wanting to subject it to the rough-and-tumble of a grocery store parking lot on my watch. When I pulled back in to the garage, I made an extreme effort to get it into correct alignment with the garage doors. I thought I was home-free. Right. Last night, we got into the Lexus to drive home from the Playhouse; and Paul said, “Jill, the lights are turned off.” I could swear on a stack of chocolate chip cookies that I didn’t do it but what would be the point?  At least I know where I stand.