Neal is the owner and not-so-proud driver of what may very well be the worst car in the world. No one is sure of the year, but we're guessing an '85 or '86 hatchback Toyota Corolla. Damn, it's an awful car.
When we first moved down here, he drove a nice Mercury Cougar. Well, that bad boy croaked after about 6 months. This was before he had secured a job in his field, and we were po' white trash broke. So after my next check, we set out looking for a $500 car.
For such a laid-back place, the Keys is all about automobile extremes. Never in one place have I seen so many droolingly nice cars tooling around, nor so many horrifyingly terrible beaters. Their official title is "Keys Cruisers." Fortunately, this means there were a selection of $500 cars from which we could choose. Not a great selection, but a selection.
So from the sleaziest used-car place I've ever been to, we wrote a $500 check to two greasy men who smoked in their office, and one pulled a bottle of liquor out of his desk drawer as we were leaving. I guess celebrating his big sale.
Of course, the starter fritzed the next day, so we had to go back and pay the seamy assholes another $125 so their seedy mechanic would put in a new one, but I'm not bitter or anything. Bastards.
Let's discuss the actual car. It's painted a fetching shade of silver. The previous owners jazzed it up with a multitude of stickers, some depicting such classy designs as The Martian from Bugs Bunny and The Grateful Dead Bear. The hood doesn't close, really. Instead, there are metal loops sticking up from under the hood that fit through holes drilled in the actual hood. The lucky owner then secures the hood shut by sticking metal clips through the loops. Brilliant! (Neal says the clips are made for that kind of hood, and at one time, someone actually put a lot of money into that car. I told him that isn't as funny, and that "one time" was over a decade ago, so I'm making fun of it anyway.)
The interior is blackish, and it came complete with a strange and unbecoming odor. It's constantly dusty, no matter what. The car is a five-speed, and the stick shift is complete with a shiny metal grip that becomes unbearably hot in the Florida sun. I've driven it, and it isn't easy. It's hard to tell when it's in gear, and when to let up on the clutch, so when I'm driving, the car makes lots of moaning noises, like I'm either torturing it or pleasuring it sexually. OK, there's a mental image I wish I didn't have. Anyway...
Someone attached luxury flip-down cup holders to the insides of each door. The one on the passenger side is evenly coated with a mysterious substance that is the stickiest stuff known to man. When riding shotgun, I once made the mistake of touching it, and all the rest of the day, my hands felt like I was clutching cotton candy with warm sweaty palms.
Neal commutes every day to a really, REALLY posh neighborhood near Miami. We're talking, really nice. Shortly after starting his job, he came home one evening and announced, "I think I have the worst car in all of Coral Gables." He's always afraid he's going to be profiled or that security won't let him park his shitty car in the garage next to the Porsches and Lambroughinis. Neal DOES say, though, that in Miami traffic, the pansy-asses driving their shiny BMWs and Lexuses get the hell out of his way.
"But Jamie," you say, "We were under the impression that Neal is now gainfully employed. Why don't you junk the clunker and put a down payment on a Honda?"
Eh, what's the point? Why wear and tear ANOTHER car, when this one still runs and gets him through his commute? I mean hell, it's paid for. Why not just run the puppy into the ground?
We may have done just that. This morning, the Neal's fair vehicle wouldn't start. Not even with a jump. Is this the end? We don't know yet.
I want you to know that Neal is concerned about me writing this. He's afraid I'm going to screw up our car-ma (Get it? CAR-ma? Oh, I kill me! Hoo-hoo!) and it will roll over and die out of spite toward my comments.
We'll see.
But in the meantime, this fine Valentine's Day, don't forget to tell your car you love it. Even if you hate it.
I love you, CAR2D2. Smooch!
