New Old Wheels
I bought a car the other day.
Not a new one. An old, used one. Actually, "old" and "used" are words that simply aren't seen or heard in the car business anymore. "Pre-owned" is the industry standard euphemism, but I've only learned this recently because it turns out I only change cars every 10 years or so.
I don't have an aversion to cars. On the contrary. I just don't feel compelled to change them that often because I spent most of my youthful years--when romances with cars are born and blossom--in New York City, where cars are completely unnecessary, even burdensome: No places to park, hideously expensive garages, constantly getting dinged and bumped....you get the picture.
So I didn't get my first car until I was 21 or so, a 1964 Buick Skylark inherited from my grandmother when she stopped driving. I kept it in a garage when I was living in New York, paid for by my employer. Wow, was that ever a luxury. I think the monthly bill was under $200. Now, you could pay that much in a few days at a midtown garage. But my boss sprung for the bill because it was cheaper than paying for rentals when I needed a car for work-related jobs.
I kept that car until I was in my mid-30s. Then I got a job in Dallas. The Skylark was almost 25 years old. Time to go back into the hands of an older, more sedate owner, as my grandmother had been. And then I actually bought my first car--one of those 5.0 Ford Mustangs that were so popular in the late 80s. Now that was a car! Not great on gas, but that wasn't the point, was it?
That joyride lasted until after I was married and had my first son, almost 10 years later. I had to give it up--very reluctantly--mainly because it was way too difficult to properly install a car seat for him in the rear of that 2-door sedan. It was much easier in my next car, a 1996 Volvo 850R, safe and kid-friendly but also, I thought anyway, sporty and speedy. That stayed with me for another 10 years or so, through my divorce, until I had piled on well over 150,000 miles and the car--uncharacteristically for a Volvo--began to nickel and dime me to death with all kinds of irritating expenses that never seemed to end.
So I sold it to one of those guys on Craigslist who was looking to rebuild the engine and restore the body and for $2,500 or so I bought another very old, very used Volvo 850, a slower and less sexy version of the R--just a year older. It had a myriad of problems that turned out to be too expensive to fix--starting with the air conditioning, which in the the beginning of my tenure with the car was balky and by the end was completely broken. I spent way too many summer afternoons driving that baby to the Valley on the 101 Freeway to pick up my son after football or soccer practice, all the windows completely down, inhaling fumes and dreaming of some blissful day in the not-too-distant future when I'd be driving a car with AC that actually worked.
Last summer I left LA for good. I didn't even think about bringing the car with me. It had served its purpose and more importantly was a vestige of a life I was leaving behind--but that's a whole other story. I gave it to the sweet Mexican woman who helped me raise my boys from the time they were born.
So last week, after spending way too much time and money getting ripped off by various rental agencies, the day to buy my next car finally arrived. It's a 2010 Mercury Milan, kind of a jazzy version of the Fusion. I'd called the guy in the pre-owned department of the dealership a few months before, told him I was going to need a car soon and he picked this one out for me. I took it for a test drive, did a little research online and then called my friend Scott in California. Scott likes cars. A lot. How much? Well, he's almost 10 years younger than me and is currently driving his 35th car.
He told me he liked the Milan. I figured he knew what he was talking about. So I bought it: The payment is cheap and I got Ford's maximum warranty plan. It was all kind of a painless no-brainer and the guy who sold me the car--we all know the reputations of used car salesmen--couldn't have been more competent or honest. How's that for an anomaly?
I just fired up the satellite radio a few days ago. So I can listen to the NHL channel to my heart's content and perpetually swat away the hand of whichever of my sons is sitting in the front seat when he dares touch the dial when I'm tuned into Siriously Sinatra. He doesn't even sing! they moan. He just talks! Really? I respond. And what exactly are Fiddy Cent, Lo Rida and Gucci Mane doing on those stations you guys listen to?
The debate rages and the heat rises. It's getting warm in here, guys. Pretty soon we'll need to turn on the AC. Oh yeah. It was the first thing I checked out when I slid behind the wheel for my test drive.
Works like a charm.