I Brake for Nothing

My brakes went out yesterday. They started making this horrible noise while I was on my way to work, and I thought I had run over a piece of a shopping cart. Usually loud noises are the only thing that prompt me to actually fix something that's wrong with my car, but sometimes even that doesn't work. I have to slide my driver's side window up and down with my hand, and it gradually opens as I drive down the interstate, letting in just enough air to cause this high-pitched whistling sound. Sometimes my passengers ask me if a baby bird is trapped in the car.

Doorhandles that fly off and go sailing across the Publix parking lot when I pull on them, mismatched hubcaps, check engine and brake lights that flicker on and off like Christmas lights, and dents that I lovingly refer to as "battle scars" are the things that make my car unique.

I mentioned to my father that I was saving for a new car, but he reacted as if I said I was saving for a sex change. "It almost always makes more sense to maintain the car you have than to buy a new one," he cautioned. I understand his logic, but there comes a time in every young man's life when he gets tired of driving a green death-trap. If my Dad had his way, I'd probably be rolling around in the wood-paneled station wagon he taught me how to drive when I was sixteen.

People are always boasting about how Japanese cars last forever, but I'm not sure whether this is something we should celebrate. Honestly, how many cars with paint jobs that make them look like they came from the automotive equivalent of a leper colony do we need puttering around our city? I think we should euthanize them.

I guess I'll just watch as my Corolla deteriorates. I'd rather just take it out in the field and execute it like a tired old racehorse, or drive it somewhere that is prone to riots in hopes that an angry mob will flip it over. Unfortunately I still need to get places.