Writer's Block: My First Car
I called it the Pinto that Ate Cleveland. A shit brown station wagon with a guess-a-gear stick shift transmission, I bought it from a lady living in one of the little houses squished between St. Vincent's and War Memorial Stadium. It had been her father's--at that time it seemed more people inherited Pintos than bought them. The original manual was in the glove box, in a vinyl case with an MG logo and a registration card from Ohio. I thought this was a sign my next car would be the MG I'd always wanted.
I hadn't read Unsafe at Any Speed, so I didn't know that Pintos had the unfortunate habit of exploding when rear-ended until later. (I don't think it applied to wagons, anyway.) I stuck a black sticker on the driver's side of the chrome rear bumper, blue letters proclaiming that I was Just Visiting This Planet. I thought that explained enough. Only suicidal maniacs drive Pintos, I said. And Aliens who needed a way to get around.
It used almost as much oil as gas, and after I had owned it about a year, it began to billow blue smoke as I took off from stoplights. We took it downtown almost biweekly, to the old black man who fixed cars as a way of occupying the hours of his job attending the pay parking lot behind the Democrat's office.
Fall of my senior year of high school, it broke down again. The Punk Stepfather and I thought it was the starter, that we could fix it ourselves. He spent a Saturday afternoon lying under the car, fighting to get it loose to take and trade on a rebuilt one from NAPA.
I left mid-afternoon to go someplace with the Boyfriend-Who-Would-Become-the Husband. When we were standing on the porch saying good night, I noticed the perfectly battery-cable-shaped hole in my bedroom window.
Apparently my stepfather threw it in frustration.
The problem wasn't the starter, but a seized engine. A month or so later, the tow truck came to take it to the Great Pinto Graveyard on the Old Conway Highway.
I hadn't read Unsafe at Any Speed, so I didn't know that Pintos had the unfortunate habit of exploding when rear-ended until later. (I don't think it applied to wagons, anyway.) I stuck a black sticker on the driver's side of the chrome rear bumper, blue letters proclaiming that I was Just Visiting This Planet. I thought that explained enough. Only suicidal maniacs drive Pintos, I said. And Aliens who needed a way to get around.
It used almost as much oil as gas, and after I had owned it about a year, it began to billow blue smoke as I took off from stoplights. We took it downtown almost biweekly, to the old black man who fixed cars as a way of occupying the hours of his job attending the pay parking lot behind the Democrat's office.
Fall of my senior year of high school, it broke down again. The Punk Stepfather and I thought it was the starter, that we could fix it ourselves. He spent a Saturday afternoon lying under the car, fighting to get it loose to take and trade on a rebuilt one from NAPA.
I left mid-afternoon to go someplace with the Boyfriend-Who-Would-Become-the Husband. When we were standing on the porch saying good night, I noticed the perfectly battery-cable-shaped hole in my bedroom window.
Apparently my stepfather threw it in frustration.
The problem wasn't the starter, but a seized engine. A month or so later, the tow truck came to take it to the Great Pinto Graveyard on the Old Conway Highway.