The Soul of a Car, Part 3
Now, this is the part of the story where the car tumbles and lurches and stalls at every intersection. It stalled in the driveway. It stalled at the market. It stalled by the ocean, and a bunch of surfers crossing the road, short boards over heads, wetsuits unzipped to their waists, smirked and laughed and asked if 19 needed help. Even the electronic door locks stopped working, and 19 cursed and slammed the keys on the kitchen table and took the phone into her bohemian alcove to begin the great teenage telephone tree of angst.
At least, it did these things while my daughter drove the car, while the car drove her mad. It didn't do them for me. It purred and galloped across town when I sat behind the wheel and I swear it smiled when it saw me walk from front door to driveway, keys in hand. When I tried to explain this to my Turkish friend, a man good with all mechanical things, he knitted dark bushy eyebrows together and spoke to me in short easy sentences as if I were five years old.
"Birdie, the car is fine. It's a great car. You got a great deal on it. 19's probably doing something wrong. Let me drive it. I'll show you it's fine."
I handed over the keys. My Turkish friend lowered the driver's seat to fit his tall frame and checked all the controls and buttons like an Air Force pilot before a prototype flight. I silently cursed him for treating me like a child and hoped the car would burp, lurch and stall, and I walked into the house to find 19 singing this song to her brothers:
My name is nineteen (clap clap)
I drive a car (clap clap)
but it breaks down (clap clap)
so I don't go far.
I ignored them, ignored the laughter and the way 19 made up new verses about the crappiness of the car and the way her mom was taken for a ride by the evil Zilch family. I ignored them and stormed off to my pretty new office and slammed the door and sent a silent telepathic message to that silver tongued devil of a car. Please, please Mr. Car, please stop acting strange. Please give my daughter happy rides and please please please God, please fix it if Mr. Car won't because I need a happy summer. And please please forgive me for wishing my Turkish friend would break down in the car because I really really didn't mean it, and I'm sorry. If you fix the car, God, I'll never complain about Avon and my life again. I promise. Please God, please.
It was a long and pathetic and sad appeal like only a mother can implore, and though I felt a bit better after praying and blowing my nose, I knew the Car God didn't answer my plea.
oh yes, to be continued after I actually accomplish some Avon this morning
7:24:49 AM 
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