As the seven of you JTTS readers know, I have faced many driving-related woes over the years.
Numerous run-ins with the law and financial instability contributed to me being license-less for the past decade or so.
I remedied my transportation deficiencies with copping two scooters – one of which was crashed by a former lover, the other which landed me in the hospital with a broken foot.
Tired of subjecting myself to a life of being coughed on by #32 bus passengers, I vowed to earn my license back.
$2,500 later, The Commonwealth Of Taxachusetts granted me my wish. I now have my license. My next mountain to climb was to cop me a buggy.
Two weeks ago, I saw her. Parked in the lot of Automotive Depot Inc. on Hyde Park Ave.
Scrawled on her front window was “$895 Fully Loaded”.
I eagerly peered inside her carriage, and was smitten.
Leather seats, faux wood grain, a stunningly demure cassette deck, and fold away cup holders that would make Homer Simpson bust a nut. I decided then and there, she would be mine.
Her name? Buick Park Avenue. She was born in 1995, which makes her 18.
Barely legal, the way I like it.
The next morning, on my way to work, I walked into the garage and announced I was interested in buying her.
I was met by Frank, the owner and curator of this well established business for 25 years. Frank quelled my worries by assuring me the car was ready to go.
“She’ll pass inspection – no problem! I have three people interested, so if you want it, you’ll be getting the best deal in town. You can’t find a car that old in the shape it’s in.”
This guy is a mechanic. He owns a shop. He’s an old dude with a reputable business. If I have a problem, I know where to find him. Why wouldn’t I?
SOLD.
I had the money to cover the car, but had to wait for my next paycheck two weeks out to handle insurance/registry and any other incidental minor repairs she might need.
Frank agreed, and I walked away a happy man.
For the next two weeks, I would stop by and say hello to her.
Images of rolling down Blue Hill Ave. bumping Gregory Isaacs with a steaming bag of Chinese food in the passenger seat danced in my head.
I could now pursue dj gigs out of town, date chicks that live in Haverhill, and order Biggie Fries in drive-thru’s across this great land.
The moment of truth (RIP Guru) came this past Friday, when my long awaited scrilla was in my palms.
I called Progressive and got my insurance poppin. I went to the RMV in Roslindale and copped my plates. I went to see Frank, and he handed me the keys.
Glory. Triumph. Endorphin release.
As I pulled out of the driveway, I repeatedly yelled out loud, “Holy shit! Hoooooly shiiiit! Yesss! Hoooollllyy Shhhiiitt!”
She purred like a kitten. Frank was right. I just scored the steal of a lifetime.
I ran some errands, showed her off to my buddy “Doug”, and filled her up with $40 worth of gas.
Next mission – Pick my son up from school.
He had no idea I was picking him up, or had a car in my possession. He’s the main reason I wanted to get a car. This would change our Friday-Sunday activities forever.
I get to his school, meet him on the playground, and we start walking towards the train, as we always do.
I say, “You know what Cayden? I don’t feel like walking today. Why don’t we take a cab?”
Smart ass says, “Wait. You’re gonna spend money on a cab?”
“Well, we’re always walking everywhere, aren’t you tired of walking?”
“Uhhh…Yeah?”
“Wait a minute…did you wash your ears? Let me look at your ears! Your ears are filthy…Wait a minute – what’s that in your ear?”
I do the ole pull something out of the ear trick. It’s a key to a brand spanking new 1995 Buick.
He screams, “YOU GOT A CAR?”
“Yes! I got a car! We’re driving, baby! We are outta here! Next stop, the moooovies! You ready?”
As we buckle in, I see the uncontrollable grin on my sons face. This is what life is all about. My boy was proud of his old man.
I start her up.
The motor doesn’t turn over.
Again.
There we go! Phew.
She moves 4 feet, and dies.
We’re in front of his school. School busses all over the place. Kids everywhere. I can’t start the fucking car.
I find myself standing in front of the car with the hood open – Staring at the engine like I remotely know what to do. I place my hand on the engine and it feels hot. I identify the oil stick thingy and the thingy that you put the wiper fluid into. Yup. I’m on the case.
For the record…this picture depicts MacGyver IRL unable to fix a car. Take notice, BMA’s.
Just then, Cayden’s principal pulls up. “You ok? You having car problems?”
What would a car guy say? Think, you mechanically retarded Jew. I got it.
“Oh, yeah…I think I need a jump. You wouldn’t happen to have some cables wooja?”
Boy, I pulled that out of my ass.
He asks, “Do you have your son with you?”
What kind of dumb question is that? I turn around, and my son isn’t in the car! I look like father of the year right now.
In a panic, I run to his passenger side window.
The little son of a bitch is cowering underneath the dashboard in sheer embarrassment. He doesn’t want his principal to see him.
The principal apologizes that he doesn’t have cables. What a fgt. What self respecting man doesn’t have cables in his car? He leaves as I busily pull out the oil stick thingy and inspect it…for what, I have no idea.
I think I’m on to something though…I may need a jump. I tell my son we need to find someone with cables.
His response. “Wait. We have to walk?”
Yes, asshole. We’ve been doing it for your entire 6 year existence. I don’t respond to him.
We go on Dorchester Ave, and people are running in and out of stores – I need a place where numerous men are situated with cars close by. I got it.
My son and I walk in, and I immediately regret it.
The Dot Tavern is apparently an all yt Southie friendly watering hole for blue collar Irish union workers who should technically be at work for another 2 hours.
Everyone stares at us as we walk in – The sight of a short Dominican accompanied by a 6 year old clutching a Spider Man backpack must have startled them.
I feel like Axel Foley in Beverly Hills Cop.
I make a quick announcement.
“Sorry to bother you guys – I just picked my son up from school and my car died, so I need a jump. I’ll give $20 to anyone that can help me out.”
Crickets. Apparently, Keno and the Herald sports section are far more important.
The bartender is sympathetic to my plight. “Jeez guy, dat sucks..buhleev me I been theah….Hey Jimmy! You got cables in yuh caah?”
Jimmy mumbles something about his wife not allowing him to drive.
Finally, a saint approaches me in the form of a 200 pound short man with a shamrock on his shirt that says “Townies”.
“I’ll help you out buddy, I’ve been there.”
My faith in Boston yt’s is restored. As we pile into his car, he tells me he just moved here from Brooklyn with his fiance’ from Minnesota who he met on a dating site. Technically, he is not a Boston yt. Faith unrestored.
Long story short, the jump doesn’t work. As we’re making an attempt to jump it, a Polish family comes out of their house to see what all the commotion is about. One of them is a mechanic, and comes out with a steel rod. He bangs on a starter thingy to no avail. Note to self – never hire a Polish mechanic.
I’m now realizing that as a car owner, I’m disgusted with all men that have no answers regarding mechanical issues, when in fact, I don’t know the difference between a…..whatever, you get my point.
I call Frank at 5:30PM and explain what happened. He closes at 6PM and isn’t open until Monday. He assures me he will repair whatever is necessary for free on Monday.
I end up having to get the car towed. 90 bucks. On the ride back, the driver lectures me about how awful American cars are. He’s talking about fuel pumps, alternators, and modules.
In an attempt to know what he’s talking about, I say, “You can’t argue with those cup holders though…we make a mean cup holder.”
He laughs. I’m being serious.
We get back home, and now I’m depressed. My son is looking at me like the hip hop world looked at Jay Electronica on Control.
Our weekend plans are dashed. I am a shell of a man.
I take two busses on Sunday night in the cold weather to drop my son off as my car sits in a lot. Fuck my life.
Today, I swing by Franks shop. He’s beaming. “You want the good news, or the bad news?”
“Give me the bad news.”
“There is no bad news! She started right up this morning! I gave her a jump, and that’s all she needed! She’s in the back – your keys are on the wall!”
I’m drained. Emotionally spent. I pluck the keys off the wall and drag myself to the car. Turn the key. Starts like buttah.
I methodically drive to “Doug’s” crib. We have Girl Scout Cookies tee shirts left over from Hempfest that we need to drop off at the Kulturez store in Harvard Square.
We drive to Harvard Square incident free and drop off the shirts. Things are looking up. I have a working car. As Douglas is handling binnez, I text my sons mother asking if I can swing by and take my son for a ride. She says yes.
Redemption. He’ll see his dad isn’t such a piece of shit.
We get back to the whip and I start her up.
Womp womp womp. I’m smack dab back in the middle of my nightmare. I’m facing another $90 tow…Prolly more since we’re in Cambridge. I want to throw up.
Doug takes off. My phone is dying. I call Frank and tell him it happened again. I need to return the car and get my money back. Frank is fine with that. In the meantime, I need to figure out getting towed.
I’ll walk to Mass. Ave where I can flag down a tow guy and have him dispatch someone for me. After 20 minutes, no luck. I’m getting cold as fuck. I walk back to the car to warm up a bit. There is a $25 parking violation on my window. My meter expired.
Thank you Lord. Thank you for looking upon me, bending me over, and shoving your holy cock in my virgin asshole. An extra thank you for not using any lube. Are you done, Lord, or should I wait for the Three Wise Men to show up and turn this thing into a full blown gang bang?
I slump into the car seat, put my head on the steering wheel for 5 minutes, and get myself together. One last try. Perhaps Jesus is done raping me.
I turn the key.
Starts like buttah.
As I drive home, I can’t help but admire the plush leather seats, sturdy ashtray compartment…and fine craftsmanship of the oil stick thingy. I’m in love all over again.
Since I’ve been home and parked her – I’ve went outside two more times and started her right up.
Here’s my dilemma. Do I return the car I love tomorrow for a full refund, or just chalk it up to a car that’s been sitting in a lot for weeks and needed to get some kinks out?
I just want to make it to Friday, so I can take my precious son for a ride.
Anyone who knows about cars, please give me some sound advice. All you other fgts who can’t tell the difference between a….you know what I mean.