It was parked in the lot behind the apartment building. All I had to do was write a check for $500 to Chad’s grandparents and it was mine. I was sixteen, so it was the biggest check I’d ever written. It pretty much wiped out my savings, but I did it. My dad had warned me buying it was only the first expense of many. There would be insurance, gas, maintenance, ... yeah, whatever. I was sixteen and I wanted a car, my own car, not the big brown dodge van my parents drove. So now I was the proud owner of a small poop brown 1974 Volkswagen Rabbit with only one head light, windshield wipers that didn’t work and a radio with punch buttons to skip to the “pre-programmed” radio stations of my choice.
It had other features, although they were all unfortunately just as unimpressive. The stuffing in the two front seats had disintegrated or decomposed, I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that inside the fabric covering, there was a metal frame in the shape of a car seat and that the fabric covering this frame was basically a sack for all the stuffing particles that had fallen to the bottom. (Whenever I would tip it forward to let someone in the backseat, a few particles would work through the cracks onto the floor. To this day I don’t know what that material was.) But anyway, it wasn’t anything a couple of tropically themed seat covers couldn’t fix. Blue and white lantana leaves juxtaposed with the maroon interior and brown paint job looked pretty smoking.
So I pulled the car out of its spot, made my way to the main road and came to a stop. Now I knew a little bit about driving stick shift, but I would put the emphasis on “little”. I’d just successfully maneuvered my way through the parking lot in first gear. Now came a six lane road, three lanes in each direction. LA & the DC area are on record as having some of the countries worst traffic. I was living in the DC area at time, at rush hour in particular, on Christmas Eve to be specific. Yes, I had just bought a car for myself on Christmas Eve; a true display of the Christmas spirit if I ever saw it. (Give me a break, I was sixteen.) But as I slowly eased off the clutch and tried to pull into traffic, fear quickly replaced the Christmas spirit.
Somehow I managed to pull into the very right lane with the grace of a bucking bronco and sweat was beginning to bead on my forehead. All I can say is “buyers remorse.” It was dusk, so I had my headlight on. Gratefully it was not raining, but I still had a distance to cover. My mission: drive to the DMV, register my car, and make it home alive. The big obstacle: The Mall. Yes, in my compulsive, sixteen year-old wisdom, I had decided to go out and purchase my first car on Christmas Eve, drive it past the shopping mall at rush hour, wait in line at the DMV where I would get to pay my first post-purchase car expenses (thanks, Dad), and then make it home in time for dinner. Brilliant.
All was going well at first. All green lights. Then the “wave” turned red. I stopped at the intersection. To my right was the mall. In my rear view mirror I saw a sea of headlights. In front of me were twelve lanes of traffic converging. “You can do this,” I told myself. The light turned green. I let out the clutch. Then everything went into a combination of super fast slow motion: Bucking bronco. Stall. Sweat. Restart the engine. Sea of headlights. Six lanes. Honking. More honking. Merry Christmas to you too! Rev the engine. Let out the clutch. Bucking bronco. Buck, buck, buck! Stall. Sweat. Light turns red. Crap! Sweat.
As I sat in the middle of the intersection, traffic from my right slowly made its way around me. I think that’s when the buyer’s remorse really started to take hold.
One more cycle of traffic lights, a few curse words, and some other holiday wishes later, I pulled into the DMV parking lot. Here my true, mature colors revealed themselves.
“Dad,” I said into the pay phone (because they still had payphones back then.)
“What, son?”
“I don’t know if I want this car anymore.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it sucks!”
Christmas Eve indeed. He talked me off the ledge, I registered the car and I made it home for dinner. Mission accomplished.
The next morning we were opening presents. (I’m sure I got gifts for my family, I just don’t recall what they were.) My parents got me a new stereo for the car. No wonder my dad talked me into it! I spent the day installing it. U2 never sounded so sweet! Now I had wheels, tunes, seat covers and a head light. Windshield wipers would have to wait, but they were coming. I was so excited. Now I just had to show it to my friends. But it was Christmas day. You don’t go visiting your friends on Christmas, at least not when you’re a teenager. I guess it’s unchristian. The day is reserved for boring relatives. But I was a quick thinker. My good friend Lauren lived around the block…and she was Jewish! Perfect. I was down the driveway as fast as my clutch would let me.
Parked in the cul-de-sac I let Lauren lay her eyes on the sweetness that was my vintage, music pumping Rabbit. She got in and I took her for a drive. My buyer’s remorse was gone. This was it! This was the life! Freedom! Then Lauren asked me, “Do these seats have any padding in them?” I’d have to get around to that I guess. My dad was right…as usual. Merry Christmas indeed.
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