I’m entirely certain I was a difficult child. Especially knowing now* what an all-mighty, insufferable pain in the ass I can be, it’s not too surprising that my mother would try to off me. I’m only surprised that she’d wait until I was eighteen to do it.
While the rest of you Pranksters had cars as teenagers, I didn’t. Instead, I bummed rides from you. See how thoughtful I was? I could drive, I just didn’t care enough to buy my own car. I much preferred to spend my dough on cheeseburgers and jaunty hair accessories. Not much has changed.
For my high school graduation, my parents gave me a car.
Before you begin hurling coffee cups at your computer monitor in righteous indignation, I assure you that it was decidedly UN-like the car commercials where the graduate wakes up to a brand-new bow-wrapped Lexus in the driveway.
My parents gave me a two hundred dollar Dodge Shadow in a color I can only call “road chocolate.”
(that is a rough approximation of the Dodge Shadow I owned)
You’d think with a carpool lane consisting of Range Rovers, Porsches, and Jaguars, I’d have been underwhelmed by this dingy road-chocolate colored piece-of-shit car, and it couldn’t have been farther from the truth.
Sure, the window didn’t roll all the way up and okay, I had to put a portable boom box in the front seat if I wanted to listen to music, and sure, the seatbelt didn’t quite….well, buckle, but it didn’t matter. The car was mine. I loved it. Pink puffy hearts.
I’d tool around in my jalopy, cold in the winter and hot as balls in the summer, and once school started, I drove it to and from my college classes.
One particularly hot autumn day, I approached a long line of cars stopped in front of me and began to eeeeeeeeasse onto the brakes. I felt something snap. So I eased more. Then I eased even more. By the time I realized I was fresh out of easing room, I veered off the road onto the gravel shoulder, the brakes were jammed down to the floorboard.
The brakes were d-e-a-d busted.
My mother, probably off buying cyanide to poison me with, didn’t pick up when I walked to the nearby elementary school to use the phone, so I had to call my boyfriend’s mother, who graciously came and rescued me.
I never saw my road-chocolate car again. I went back to bumming rides off my friends until the day I became suicidal and bought a two-seater cherry-red Honda del sol.
It was a bonus: a sweet ride that doubled as a coffin (in the event of an accident).
More importantly, it had a six-disc changer in the back. Even then, I was aware of the things that REALLY mattered in life: like air conditioning and the ablity to listen to all my Britney CD’s AT ONCE.
*teenagers are, of course, certain of their awesomeness and anyone who says otherwise is clearly a Communist.