Barbara (part II)

Barbara was the perfect college-car. Cheap on gas, cheap on maintenance, and just...well, cheap.

Since it was summer, and I was home, I was working at the local "Latest & Greatest Video." It was a horrible job--one which taught me that I hate serving the public and its people and I will never do anything like that again for as long as I live because I can't stand carrying on idle chit-chat with random people and telling them "Have a great day!" when I really don't mean it. Yet, I keep a public web log--go figure. So anyways, on the way to work one day, the subdivision cop pulls me over. I immediately fall into "stupid girl" mode, and begin batting my eyelashes and making pouty lips. I'm not sure how the hell that happens, but it's nearly instantaneous. I'll pass by someone ELSE getting pulled over and all of the sudden my lips are bee-stung, and my eyelashes are dancing the conga. Ridiculous. So, this cop pulls me over, and says, "Do you know your reverse lights are on?"
"Reverse lights? No, Officer [bat, bat, pout], I didn't." (Really, I didn't)
"Can I see your license and insurance, please?"
[pout, bite lip, look innocent] "Can you please write down exactly what the problem is, so my dad can fix it for me?" [bat, bat, sniff, pout]

So, the cop goes back to his car, and I'm thinking, "Good Lord. How much longer must I put on this charade?!" and I see him walking back.

"Here, I'm not giving you a ticket, just a warning. Tell your dad to fix the lights."
"Thank you, Officer!" [bat, bat, smile]

Jackleg. I hate using my gender as a key, but hey, whatever works. No ticket, no dinero. The reverse lights were the least of my problems with the shit-mobile. Enter Fall semester.

I'm on the way up to school, and the rear windshield wiper comes on. The day is clear as all get-out, and here I am, putzing down the freeway with my back wiper going on full speed. I ignored it for the first 30-minutes, but that sound--the eeee-uh! eee-uh! eee-uh!--of the dry wiper on the dry window was making my teeth grit. So I did what anyone in my position would have done. I pulled over to the shoulder, got outta my car, stomped to the back, and ripped the mother-fucker off. Of course, I had to fight with it a bit, because it's not going to just "pop off" easily. I was standing on the back bumper, windshield wiper in my grip, twisting and pulling and tugging at that piece of shit, all the while, yelling, "Die mother-fucker! DIE!" while logging-trucks honked their air-horns and blew past me. Oh yes, that windshield wiper died a terrible death: rotting and rusting in the grassy-area alongside 59N. The days weren't kind to Barbara.

Everytime it rained, she leaked from unidentifiable spots--right into the fuse box. Many-a-time i'd be driving home from work in the dead of night, and either (a) the windshield wipers would just come on, or (b) the headlights would go out. The headlights were always my favorite catastrophe. You see, the drive home was on a long, curvy drive with minimal lighting. As soon as my headlights went out, I couldn't see shit, so I'd start kicking the fuse box. I finally figured out, that if I gave it a good, swift kick on the right side, the headlights would come back on. Nice. It always scared the crap out of people, but it was fun.

I guess the biggest problem with Barb, was that she refused to go into reverse 95% of the time. It took a hell of a lotta cajoling to get that baby to go backwards. To save myself the time of screwing with the shift-stick for ten minutes, I'd just park out in the boondocks--you know, far out enough where no one in their right mind would park--just so I could drive straight outta there. Obviously, parellel parking never happened, and if I was put in the position where I may have had to, someone else drove. For instance:

"Hey, you wanna go to La Carreta for some margaritas?"
"Sure!"
"Can you drive?"
"What's the parking situation over there?"
"If the regular lot's full, it's along the street."
"Do you wanna take that chance? Or would you rather drive?"
"I'll be there in 5."

There were several times, however, that the parking lot which I had to use, was situated in such a way that I could not "drive through." In those cases, I parked as far out as possible, and would stick my foot out the door, and push the car backwards, "Flinstone Style." I just hoped that no one saw me because really, that shit's embarrassing. But not as embarrassing as having to park the car BEHIND the sorority house during rush because your car is such a POS. Good thing I paid $250 dollars a month to be part of that sorority! Thanks a lot for minding my feelings!! Bitches. Heartless bitches.

But you see, not everyone thought Barbara was a crapper. I had a special place in my heart for her. I used to buy her scented disks to put under her seats, that left her all nice and citrusy-smelling. Someone else loved her too, or loved the radio in her, I guess. I walked out to her one day, and the dashboard was practically lying on the front seats. Someone had tried to steal her radio, but the dumb bastards didn't realize that we had to use brute strength just to get the thing IN the wee little radio cut-out that Volkswagen allows. They weren't able to get the radio, but they did pull it out a bit. We just shoved it back in, then kept it there with 4 big-ass screws. They kinda looked like little decorative corners, but kinda not.

Anyways, Barbara was a good car, and we had a good relationship until I graduated and had to get a real job. Most places won't let you specify what kind of parking space your car requires, so I was basically shit out of luck. I got a job at the local preschool, teaching the pre-k class. The school was only 2 miles from my house--far enough that I was too lazy to ride my bike, but close enough that the car battery didn't have enough time to charge. So, I'd get to the school, hook up a charger to my car, hop the fence, and plug her in. The kids loved to run up to the window and wave to me: "Look! Teacher's plugging in her car!"

We're almost to the end, people, hang in there.

It finally came to the point, where I just couldn't bear plugging her in, kicking the fuse box, or Flinstoning my way out of parking spots. I had to get a new car. We looked her up on Kelly Blue Book. She was worth--are you ready? TWO-HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS. I didn't even know they listed crap on there. We plugged her in for a good week, shined up her poo-stain paint, and drilled a hole in the floorboard so the water could drain (from the leaks). Then, we drove her up to the dealership.

As they were out there "inspecting" her for trade-in value, we were praying. Hard. "Please, Lord, let it start. Let it go in reverse. Let the blinkers work. Let the lights work," etc. Well, God took pity on us and, on paper, the dealership had given us $2k for good 'ol Barbara. I signed the papers, then laughed in an evil fashion.

I drove home in my new car, picturing the GMC guys Flinstoning Barbara out of the parking spot.

Damn, I miss that car.