My first car I drove only once or twice. I can drive a stick shift in a pinch, but my legs were too short and that truck’s clutch was too long, so after working for months to buy it off my uncle, I still drove my mom’s minivan to school. The truck was mostly useless until my brother started to drive and claimed it. It was “his truck” though he never paid a penny, and when they went to do the trade in, my mom forged a signature because we’d all forgotten it was my name on the title. My brother bought a cute little Yaris instead.
My second car died without explanation. It was a tough little Volvo my parents bought me for my senior year at school as a belated 21st birthday present and it got me to and from school with no problem several times, before a twenty-minute drive around town caused it to overheat and things to start to melt. After many mechanics opinions, no one could figure out why it over heated, in January in the mountains with nothing wrong with the engine–it just shouldn’t have. But, once the melting began, the damage was done, and it wasn’t worth fixing. It got sold at a pick and pull junkyard and sat there until it was just a frame.
My last poor little car was my first real proper purchase. Car loans and test drives and my very own tags. It survived the sister road trip up the east coast and the beating of a driver who was a little too heavy-handed with the gas pedal–but it couldn’t win the war against the big pick up truck that the slight dusting of snow decided need to happen. Driver and passenger were unharmed except for some seat belt bruising, but the hood was crumbled to about half its usual size, and I had to climb out the passenger side since the driver’s door no longer opened.
Who in their right mind would ever allow me to own another car?