From the Archives: Car Shopping

Originally published in issue v12i05 (March 2006).

The roar had become deafening. By the end of the fall semester at UW-Green Bay, I was ending my hour and a half commute from Sister Bay with a droning headache. It was obviously time for me to finally buck up and get a new car.

Well, actually, that time had come about a year earlier, but like the bitter, 75 year-old uncle suffering from emphysema the whole family just wants to die, my 1989 Toyota Camry Grocery-Getter would not give in.

I bought it from my roommate in the spring of 2004 for a nominal fee, anticipating it would get me through the summer, then die and put the requisite pressure on me that I would require before making any significant life decision.

See, I’ll put up with a lot of annoyance in order to avoid making the difficult choices in life, hence the continued bartending and thrice delayed 14-year college plan.

This car, as Toyotas are wont to do, refused to cooperate. By the late fall of ‘04, as I neared the beginning of my third tour of duty as a college student, the exhaust had begun to go. I thought I would be forced to buy a new car before starting my daily commute in January. Yet, aside from a little excess noise, the wagon prowled on.

A month into the semester, I had an encounter with a milk truck (the 18-wheel with a tank trailer version) – and survived. The wagon was battered but unbowed. I told myself I’d buy something in the next week or so, but once again my complacency kicked in. The exhaust was getting worse, the rattling increasingly prevalent, but I could live with that if it meant no car payment, loan apps, or anything remotely resembling a commitment of any sort.

I periodically strolled the used car lots, test drove a few cars, browsed online. Some days I woke determined to make the call, and some afternoons I was nearly willing to drive into the lake just to shut my car up, but I just couldn’t cross that new car bridge.

Buying a new car was especially difficult for me, for while some guys get ripped on for being bad drivers but aren’t, or don’t believe they are, I’m fully aware of my shortcomings (others might supplant "shortcomings" with "astonishing stupidity"). I’d call my driving record spotty, but that would imply multiple separate spots. No, my 11 years of licensed and unlicensed driving would appear more like one giant black mark on the roads of Door Co.

I’ve garnered five speeding tickets, three more for registration, and somehow merited mercy to the tune of 30-plus warnings for all manner of vehicular violations. I nearly totaled my first car a month after getting my license while careening down a ditch just about a block from home on a sunny afternoon. I fixed that car, only to come to a halting stop in light snow at about 5 mph, where I slid into a guardrail, denting my fender (a lovely shade of pale blue that perfectly accented my otherwise red car) and shattering a headlight. Finally, I would put an end to the car by rear-ending a buddy doing a Chinese fire drill during the senior homecoming car parade through Ephraim. Very cool.

My destruction, however, is not relegated to my own driving, or even my own cars, for I am a curse on all vehicles. My sister borrowed my car once, only to get smoked by a drunk driver, totaling said car. A friend was ticketed for an unregistered vehicle while driving my car. I put a broomstick through my mother’s convertible window while putting the top back up after the Return to Titletown celebration after Super Bowl XXI. I later drove that car into a mound of gravel at about 50 mph that a grater had left in the middle of the road, flooding the engine with dust and stones.

I merely catch a ride in other cars and their engines crumble, transmissions mysteriously fail, tires blow. I drove another buddy’s car (the aptly named Warpig) to its death, and am suspected of killing an ex-girlfriend’s car. I drove one car till its brakes failed entirely as I pulled into my driveway. Fortunately, we had a huge snow bank in front of the house to soften the blow and shared a driveway with a mechanic, who still charged me $50 to take the car to his "official" driveway, a mere 10 feet or so to the right (You’ll get yours! You know who you are).

That was it for a few years – years when, like the Ladies Man, "my vehicle did not exist." I couldn’t afford one, didn’t particularly need one, but I also didn’t see the point in my destroying another innocent automobile.

But last month, with a two and a half month road trip on deck, I knew I had to take the plunge. Actually, the Camry’s dubious shocks, leaky gas tank (which couldn’t be filled past 6.8 gallons) and the rapidly weakening brakes pretty much forced me to.

A friend volunteered to shop with me, no small gesture considering he had committed to driving to Green Bay in my rapidly deteriorating auto. Shortly into our drive, after the growling brakes made their presence heard, he cracked what seemed like a joke at the time.

"You have no choice but to buy a car today," he said, "because this thing ain’t making it back home, at least not with me in it."

We had slated six dealerships for visits, but by number two, it was apparent that what was earlier a joke was quickly becoming reality. My brakes were not long for this world. The bitter uncle was finally losing his fight.

At our third stop, we found a deal we liked, then went to lunch to mull it over. We almost didn’t make it back. Pulling out of Arby’s, or trying to, the car stuck. The sound of twisting metal sprung from my front axel as it idled into reverse.

"We might just be leaving this thing here," I said to my smirking passenger.

He prodded me into giving it another shot. For a moment we didn’t move, then I hit the gas a little more and we broke free. Parts hit the ground, and though I’m not a car buff, I’m assuming that if they were deemed worthy of putting underneath the hood upon assembly, they were probably fairly essential.

"Should we stop here," I queried, already knowing what he would say but needing the assurance.

"Well, it’s only a couple hundred yards back to the dealership," he said. "And you shouldn’t have to stop if you don’t want to."

Stopping, however, had passed the point of being a matter of choice. The brakes were toast. I went for it, coasting slowly into the lot, aiming for a small tree just in case. Fortunately, the brakes gave me one last, reluctant stop. My car had toughed it out just long enough to get me to my ultimate destination, as if it had known it all along.

As we were negotiating the deal, the salesman asked if I would want to take the new car home with me today. My friend and I chuckled.

"It doesn’t matter when I WANT to take the car home," I said. "You see, the car I came here in is simply not leaving your lot. I HAVE to take this car home today."

And that, friends, was me tossing my bargaining leverage right out the window. Fortunately, we were already near our preferred price. A little after five I rolled off the lot in my used vehicle, newly insured, proudly possessing a car loan at a decent rate (forgive me if insurance and accepted loan don’t move you, for me, this was earth-shattering). The ride home was astounding.

I reveled in the little things. The silence of the exhaust and breaks. The CD player. Acceleration. I had several opportunities to pass slower cars, but I was not yet attuned to the possibility. A couple days later I put gas in it for the first time, allowing myself to look away as it filled to the top. No need to keep an eye out for the seven gallon mark or look for spillage. More than that, however, was the joy in not having to bust out the pliers to pry open the gas hatch.

I had been told for years by a wiser friend that the first day I drove a new car without all the hassles of my aging warrior, the price I paid for the comfort would seem inconsequential. He was right. I’d just feel better if I knew a shaman who could lift my curse.