Back to the story of "The Silver Bullet"

It was a decent car--I mean, it got me from point A to point B, without me having to beg for rides from friends that lived nowhere near me. It wasn't pretty to look at--dull, silver-grey; flat spots in the paint where the clear-coat was peeling off, factory rims, and a bench seat in the front. A BENCH SEAT. Who the hell had THAT bright idea? It was like a big frickin couch in the front seat of my car. Although I could have added some throw-pillows to make it look more "homey," I elected not to. The interior color would have been just too difficult to match, and I didn't want to look chintzy.

The bench seat was a total pain in the ass for many reasons. The first, being that it was just a bad deal for the passenger. In designing the Aries, the facinating engineers at Dodge decided to place the gas/brake pedals so far under the dash, that you'd have to be an Ethiopian basketball star to be able to reach them. Alas, the only thing I can slam dunk is a poopy diaper in a Diaper Champ. In order for me to reach the pedals, I had to scoot the couch so close to the car, that my boobs were entangled in the steering wheel, and the passenger was eating the dash. Strike 1 for the Aries.

The second issue with the Aries, besides the horrific knowledge that the stains on the ceiling could be related to the massive drawers we found behind the backseat, is that the doors all had problems. If you opened the doors too far---wait, did I not mention that it was a 4-door?? Oh yes, it was a SEDAN--they tended to get stuck in the open position. Getting them to close properly then became a sport. You had to lift the damn door, then body ram it to get it closed. We took to just "Dukes of Hazzard-ing" it. When we tried to tell my dad that the doors got stuck open, he used to tell us that we were opening them wrong. "Opening" them wrong?? It's not like it was a fucking DeLorian or anything. Doors on Aries' open one way only.

One Texas-hot, 110-degree day, me, my brother, and my friend Brooke were leaving school. Because Brooke was going to ride up on the couch with me, my brother was kind enough to get in the back seat. When he opened the back door, it fell off. It didn't get stuck--it FELL OFF. ONTO THE CEMENT. A CAR DOOR. LYING ON THE CEMENT. My car had all of a sudden become open air. Can you believe?! So, the three of us are in a state between peeing our pants and utter confusion. It's not every day a car door just falls off.

After about 10 minutes of gasping for breath and crossing our legs, my brother hops in the backseat, which was easy, since there was NO DOOR. Brooke and I lift the door back into the frame, and my brother, from inside the car, held it there with the strap that's on the door's upholstery. I always wondered what those straps were for--now, I know. The whole way home, he'd yell, "Quit going so fast! I'm losing my grip!" Truth be told, I was only going about 45, since the car wouldn't go any faster than that, even if I "dropped the hammer." However, we made it home--door still on the car--and even managed to get out of the car without the door falling off.

When my dad got home, I told him, "Dad, the door fell off the car." Of course, he immediately started giving us the "what for" for opening the doors wrong. "NO," we said, "It FELL OFF the car." He looked at us, and then basically told us we were lying. He eventually got pissed enough where he went outside to see for himself. Shawn and I watched from the upstairs window. Dad sauntered over to the car, put his hand on the handle and pulled. The next moment, the door was lying in the grass next to him. Guess he opened it wrong.