It was said by someone very dear to my heart and mind that you can't cover the American Dream in an un-American car. The American Dream is a noholdsbar grab on life, hands on the throat and groin, a steady sure climb to the top. This can't be said with a Nissan. It has to be a Cadillac. It has to be bold, it has to be manufactured right here, and it has to break down frequently. This person (Hunter S. Thompson) said something like this in his infamous book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (I can't find the exact quote on the great black void of the internet right now). No, this is not a book review, just some parallell lines to get my point rolling.
Bloggers, bloggees, people that don't want to be associated with the word blog, I bought a car! It's a cadillac. One of those new models with jet fuel and a paintball gun attached to the front bumper. I kid, I kid. It's a Toyota Matrix, hatchback, good gas mileage, black, nice and shapely. American Dream status? Dunno. I guess I wanted to do two things with this post, talk about cars and my experiences in searching for the right one, and also about the American Dream as a whole, from a writer's standpoint. Specifically from a "what would Hunter S. have to say about the nature of our nature" sort of thing.
So, first, the cars. It is tiring looking for a used car. There is a mindless numbing that accompanies the search, sort of like you are looking for lesser known lost treasure: the sacred rites of Roman Emperor Elagabalus or pottery sherd #1,229. Now I happen to think I found a pretty solid gold piece (being my car) but man, that search had me weary.
Some stories: I test drove a 2010 Honda Fit at the urging of my grandmother, Honda is known for safety after all, and found possibly the newest new (and used, mind you) car salesman the world may have ever known. My test drive was his first. He left turned me into rush hour at a large intersection in Oxnard (those that know this pain, please pray on my behalf) and I found out how it would feel to drive this car in bumper to bumper traffic. He proceeded to explain the features of the car by reciting the booklet they give to customers on all their knew cars. "It has windshield wipers. The seats fold down. The CR-Z is a lot cooler, probably." William, you dear, dear man. He was pretty great, actually. My first test drive did not involve the bone-chilling stareslashplea that most of these men give you as they ask you to sit in their office. Where else do guests get the comfier chair, with wheels and swivel option? You are sitting on a wooden stool, my man. Who has control here? As we sat down he simply said, "Now, because I have to, are you interested in buying this car?"
Twenty minutes later, same day, we pull into the lavish Toyota complex and are awarded the commendable help of Pontz, the maybe German maybe Swedish maybe Belgiumish(??) sales aficionado. Unlike our Honda helper, this man knew cars. On the scenic wind-driven 55mph drive up a back road he proceeded to wipe Honda's small industry like a bug against Toyota's arsenal of automobiles. The space of the Matrix (yes, the car I wanted but a year newer, test-driving for surety) is that of a giant crushing a bug. This man did not like bugs. Or, at least, was very serious about the Honda Fit being like a bug that needed killing. He had me pull an illegal u-turn to take the easy way back. "Feel the control," he said, "The radius of the wheel spinning the axels is most excellent." He smelled richly of cologne. "The car has interstellar options, it can dodge bullets, exactly like that man in the Matrix, and it gets a solid 32mpg on the highway." Half-truths. He asked near the end of the ride, in his vague-European accent, if I was interested in buying the car, if we could "make a deal," and when I said I wasn't actually going to buy a car today he said, "I will respect you, I do respect this." Before we left we had to sit in the comfy chairs and he had to check with his boss about three times without me ever issuing a price. He gave me a piece of paper with $23,000 as a possibility based on credit, and then asked me to choose a payment plan. His eyes gleamed. Pontz was a nice man, but a very serious car salesman.
What I have loved about all the car shopping is how the lies come dangling out, one little step at a time. We are creatures shadowed in our mistruths (feel the American Dream coming on, slowly, surely?) and it turns out that cars have secrets their owners want to hide. I almost bought a Volvo--super clean, leather interior, medium miles, work done at the dealer, upgraded Iphone thingamabobs, good good good. Took it into a mechanic who estimated about two grand of repairs, new fluids new this new that. I got a phone call from that guy who trailed on about a couple oil changes at the jiffy lube; bits of guilty truth leaking from sideways glances and lilting voice patterns. Some parts possibly replaced at Pepboys. Minor work. No, really, I just, listen, it's very clean. Or the ad that says "No accidents!" means no new doors, no engine rebuilding. But those are some pretty serious curb swipes, lady. Anyway, it was like that show Lie To Me, who could last the longest selling the least they wanted to about their hurt little vehicles. A game of wills.
----This post is getting too long, I will end it here, and post the second-half soon. It's the American Dream, after all, can't be covered in one go. Hope you guys enjoyed...stay tuned.----
p.s. some of that was fiction.
p.p.s thank you for reading! I hope the infrequency does not bother you. I will try and remedy that soon, my receptionist has been out with whooping cough all week.
No comments:
Post a Comment