Hard to be Both

Chapter One

My older sisters (2) will tell you that the fact that my parents bought be a car when I was in high school proves that I was, perhaps even am, spoiled. I would counter that at least 50% of my sisters did not receive their drivers licenses until well beyond high school.

The fact was that my parents were sick of negotiating with me for the use of the family cars and/or carpooling with me to work/school/whatever else. The solution came in the form of 0.9% financing and a gently used 1983 Ford Escort that was a screamer of a deal at the dealership owned by a guy who went to the same college as my dad.

So it was announced: I was getting a car. I could use it to get around during my senior year in high school and then sell it when I needed the money for college.

Chapter Two

I went to college in Santa Cruz, California and when I decided I needed my car there, I flew home to get it and my parents bought me one of those lunch box pull-out car stereos (so the robbers wouldn’t steal it, get it?) I drove the car from Fairbanks, Alaska, to Santa Cruz. But to give myself a break from the driving, I took the car ferry between Haines, Alaska and Prince Rupert, British Columbia.

When I first got on the ferry, I loved it. It was like a cocktail party with outdoorsy types and whales on the starboard side. I met a bunch of nice people including a chatty old guy who was getting off in Juneau. While the ferry was in port he suggested we visit a local bar, one of those places where you can throw peanut shells on the floor. So I climbed into his pickup with him and went driving off into the evening light, listening the gun rack rattle behind my head. I remember vaguely questioning my judgment.

We went to the bar, enjoyed a beer and stopped at a grocery store so I could buy some provisions for the balance of my trip. Then he drove me back to the dock where we found the gangway up and the ferry preparing to pull away. I bolted from the cab of his truck with a “Thanks” and a wave and bellowed to the guys untying the ferry. I could picture my Escort in the hold, loaded with all my earthly belongings, including a small cardboard box of cassette tapes and the lunch box stereo hidden cleverly beneath the passenger seat to thwart robbers.

The dock guys swung me on board, my provisions under my arm. I ran up to a family of brothers from Round Lake, Minnesota I had met on the fist leg of the trip and was about to launch into the fresh tale of my close shave when a voice over the loudspeaker stole the punchline. “Will the girl who just jumped ship please come to the bursar’s office and show your ticket?”

I kind of dated one of those brothers for a while. He drove with me for a while after we got off the ferry. He made fun of my John Denver tape.

Chapter Three

As it turns out, the 1983 Ford Escort was one of the worst cars ever made. Something was constantly wrong with it. I lived in San Francisco after college and the car would die without warning or explanation and I would have to pull over and wait until it would start again. It became a joke among my friends and once when I was stranded and it wouldn’t start, I had to call the boyfriend I was in the midst of breaking up with for help. The car had to go.

I spent a week calling various junk yards and charities finding out the best way to get rid of the car. The best offer I came up with was $10 cash for the car and I wouldn’t have to pay any towing fees. I held off, hoping I could do better.

But then one Sunday, I was walking home from the grocery store enjoying the slanting sunlight of a summer evening when I remembered: Monday morning street cleaning. The car, which I hadn’t driven all week in a fit of PTSD, would have to be moved. I walked toward the Escort weighing the odds of it starting. I perched the grocery bag on the roof, slid in the stale smelling car and turned the key. Nothing.

I got out again. Cursing mightily and grabing for the groceries. I made eye contact with a hapless looking guy walking up the sidewalk trailing his unicycle behind him. I scowled.

“Hey it can’t be that bad,” he said to me with a carefree grin. “At least you have a car.”

I turned on him, I’m sure I was laughing maniacally. “Car?” I sputtered. “You want this car? $10 and it’s yours.”

He carefully set down his unicycle and reached into his pocket. He counted out a stack of one-dollar-bills collected that afternoon from tourists at the wharf taking in his juggling routine. He had 12. “I’ll give you $12.”

The transaction was simple. I ripped a swipe of my grocery bag and wrote a bill of sale. I took his $12, informed him he’d need a tow truck and shook his hand. We parted and I walked toward home, feeling smug.

He had to chase me down. I’d forgotten to give him the keys. And later he called to work out the transfer of the title and told me, post-mechanic, that I didn’t get a bad deal.

I spent most of the money that night on a forgotten movie.