Reflections: Cars
Cars...they reveal so much about their owners: preferences in style and color, social status, how they spend their time, the size of their bank account (or what size bank account they want us to think they have). We can even tell from a car how neat or not so neat a person is.
Think about the spotless and shiny Jaguars owned by half the lawyers in the city, the SUVs owned by the soccer moms of suberbia, the sports cars owned by teens who just graduated from high school, and the junk cars driven by poor teens who work late hours on the weekends to pay their car insurance bills. There are the pickup trucks proudly displaying gun racks owned by the "Bubbas" of the South, and the souped up sports cars driven by NASCAR-driver "wanna-bes". Need I say more.
I often wondered what kind of image I displayed in 1990 when I drove my cooper-brown 1979 Honda Accord Hatchback. The car, sold to me for $1,200 by a car salesman friend who felt sorry for me, had an engine that purred and great gas mileage. That was about all that was good about it. The well-worn bucket seats were covered with a grubby, but soft and squashed fur, and the paint on the outside was dull from too much sun and not enough wax. "My Bomb", as I dubbed it, had gone through a long list of owners. The last owner had decided to see what style and type of car tire wore the best, so I had a new set of tires: one Michelin, one Goodyear, one Pirelli, and one Firestone. "My Bomb" had a distinctive rattle that came from the hatchback that tended to leak when it rained. The air conditioner did not work, and "My Bomb" stalled regularly.
I kept a quart of oil and a bottle of that fluid you put in the car when the clutch leaks. "My Bomb" leaked more than a lawn sprinkler on a dry day. Every so often, the clutch would give out, and I would have to pump it to get the pressure up. If that didn't work, I got out and put more fluid into it. "My Bomb" seemed to like to die during rush hour in one of two places: the busiest intersection in town (just when the light was turning green) and the "on ramp" leading to the second busiest street in town. Out I would climb in my high heels and expensive work dress, long brown hair flying in the wind. I'd pop the hood and start pouring fluid in the appropriate place. If it had been any other time of the day rather than rush hour, I might have picked up a few dates.
One day while I was driving "My Bomb" down the road, I heard this noise coming from under the car. Over the weeks, it got gradually louder. Finally, when I could stand it no longer, I stopped by the muffler shop and asked someone if they would have a look at it. I sat down in the waiting area with a good book and thought about how much it was going to cost me. Not ten minutes passed before a nice mechanic walked in. By the look on his face, I knew he had been laughing and was doing his best not to show it. "Lady," he said, "Did you know that you have a muffler from a VW Rabbit on this car?" He was still doing his best to keep from busting out loud. "No sir, I bought this car used, and this is the first time I've had a problem with the muffler." Then I started to laugh. What kind of person puts a VW muffler on a Honda Accord? (The same kind that puts four different kinds of tires on a car to see which one wears better.) The mechanic then informed me that the muffler was welded on so tightly, he was afraid that if he moved it, the whole bottom of the car would fall off. "If you don't mind," he said grinning widely, "I'm just going to put a little weld on the hole. I won't charge you anything." That's when I decided it was about time to find a new car. I did. I bought a used Nissan Maxima, 5-speed, no air conditioner, 150,000 miles already on it. Hey, I put another 100,000 miles on that car.
I've moved up in the world since then. I am no longer a poor, legal secretary working for lawyers who don't pay well. I am married with two children, and I drive a mini-van like all the other "soccer moms" out there.
Yes, cars tell a lot about a person. Think about that the next time you buy a car.
Think about the spotless and shiny Jaguars owned by half the lawyers in the city, the SUVs owned by the soccer moms of suberbia, the sports cars owned by teens who just graduated from high school, and the junk cars driven by poor teens who work late hours on the weekends to pay their car insurance bills. There are the pickup trucks proudly displaying gun racks owned by the "Bubbas" of the South, and the souped up sports cars driven by NASCAR-driver "wanna-bes". Need I say more.
I often wondered what kind of image I displayed in 1990 when I drove my cooper-brown 1979 Honda Accord Hatchback. The car, sold to me for $1,200 by a car salesman friend who felt sorry for me, had an engine that purred and great gas mileage. That was about all that was good about it. The well-worn bucket seats were covered with a grubby, but soft and squashed fur, and the paint on the outside was dull from too much sun and not enough wax. "My Bomb", as I dubbed it, had gone through a long list of owners. The last owner had decided to see what style and type of car tire wore the best, so I had a new set of tires: one Michelin, one Goodyear, one Pirelli, and one Firestone. "My Bomb" had a distinctive rattle that came from the hatchback that tended to leak when it rained. The air conditioner did not work, and "My Bomb" stalled regularly.
I kept a quart of oil and a bottle of that fluid you put in the car when the clutch leaks. "My Bomb" leaked more than a lawn sprinkler on a dry day. Every so often, the clutch would give out, and I would have to pump it to get the pressure up. If that didn't work, I got out and put more fluid into it. "My Bomb" seemed to like to die during rush hour in one of two places: the busiest intersection in town (just when the light was turning green) and the "on ramp" leading to the second busiest street in town. Out I would climb in my high heels and expensive work dress, long brown hair flying in the wind. I'd pop the hood and start pouring fluid in the appropriate place. If it had been any other time of the day rather than rush hour, I might have picked up a few dates.
One day while I was driving "My Bomb" down the road, I heard this noise coming from under the car. Over the weeks, it got gradually louder. Finally, when I could stand it no longer, I stopped by the muffler shop and asked someone if they would have a look at it. I sat down in the waiting area with a good book and thought about how much it was going to cost me. Not ten minutes passed before a nice mechanic walked in. By the look on his face, I knew he had been laughing and was doing his best not to show it. "Lady," he said, "Did you know that you have a muffler from a VW Rabbit on this car?" He was still doing his best to keep from busting out loud. "No sir, I bought this car used, and this is the first time I've had a problem with the muffler." Then I started to laugh. What kind of person puts a VW muffler on a Honda Accord? (The same kind that puts four different kinds of tires on a car to see which one wears better.) The mechanic then informed me that the muffler was welded on so tightly, he was afraid that if he moved it, the whole bottom of the car would fall off. "If you don't mind," he said grinning widely, "I'm just going to put a little weld on the hole. I won't charge you anything." That's when I decided it was about time to find a new car. I did. I bought a used Nissan Maxima, 5-speed, no air conditioner, 150,000 miles already on it. Hey, I put another 100,000 miles on that car.
I've moved up in the world since then. I am no longer a poor, legal secretary working for lawyers who don't pay well. I am married with two children, and I drive a mini-van like all the other "soccer moms" out there.
Yes, cars tell a lot about a person. Think about that the next time you buy a car.
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