The Aerie
My favorite ugly car is my 1996 Purple Geo Metro that I'm trying to
unload right now. I recently replaced it with an anonymous sedan, a '00
Plymouth Neon that can actually fit my whole family - wise, but boring,
like Gandalf the Grey (or in this case, Gandalf the Cinnamon).
I bought the Metro in 1999 as a "temporary" car and immediately fell in
love with it. Although it only has two more cylinders than a lawnmower,
it really steps out: push the gas pedal and zoom! you're off like a
motorized roller skate. Then there's the exhilaration of living always
one cell-phone-talking latte-drinking knee-driving teenager-in-mom's-SUV
away from Certain Death. Other cars are vulnerable to Serious
Accidents, the purple Metro is vulnerable to Really Strong Sneezes. And
it gets 35MPG city and can park ANYWHERE.
It's got a little rust. Its front bumper is a piece of aluminum
sheeting screwed to the plastic cracked by a love-tap with a brand new
car at an intersection. Its exhaust system is cracked off of the
manifold at the block. And sometimes the stereo wires come loose inside
the doors, and can only be reattached by the quadruple-jointed actresses
from Cirque de Soliel. Such a deal! I'll miss it when its gone.
Anyone want it? Drop me an e-mail. Please, no shoving.
My other favorite ugly car wasn't so ugly - a 1983 Mazda 626. That was
my Young Man car of my Twenties, and I had many an adventure in it,
including slaloming through the snow-filled median on Highway 10,
shearing the passenger-side mirror off on a post. I got struck twice on
my right front quarter panel in the same month, by drivers with two
different insurance agencies, and the panel-replacement checks turned
into the downpayment on my home.
But along came kids and the Mazda had to be traded in on a minivan, and
I watched my rusty, dented bachelorhood roll away to certain doom. I
was sure that its next parking spot would feature four iron walls on
hydraulic rams.
Six months later I was parking my van at a Target 'way across town...
when along came my Mazda! Its damage had been repaired, its rust
Bondo'ed over, and the Hmong family inside gazed suspiciously at the
American who was tearing up at the sight of their car. I tried to
communicate to them my glee at seeing my old car again, but I'm pretty
sure I've entered their family mythos as "Remember that crazy guy we
escaped at Target that time?"
I never saw it again, but I had not until that moment any idea that one
could feel such glee and even relief at seeing an old car again. Just
knowing it had not been destroyed made me feel like it, along with that
portion of my youth it represented, could still be out there somewhere -
packed with strangers, populated with bobbleheads in the back window,
but still alive, and still zooming up and down the road.