October, 2010

If It Weren't For Bad Luck, Some People Would Have None At All

If you're old enough, you'll remember a comic that started in WW II called "The Sad Sack." The original strips had no dialogue balloons, everything in pantomime; situations that made you laugh and often wince at the same time. Everybody knows at least one person like that—three lines to choose from, he'll choose the slowest. She buys an appliance and it dies one day past the warranty. 'My ship came in—and there was a dock strike.'

I knew a couple like that. After years of bad luck, things looked like they were going to turn around. Right after the New Year in 2001, they sold everything so that it would be easier to drive cross-country—they could afford to replace everything, since he was going to start a new, fantabulous job with this company in Texas. You might have heard of them—Enron?

Fortunately, they had parted on good terms with their respective prior employers and were given job offers for their return to DC. Like Fun With Dick and Jane, they desperately downsized for several months until biting the bullet and selling darn near everything yet again before moving back.

They fit everything in the back seat and trunk of a bare bones basic model '76 Plymouth Valiant. When they stopped by after being back in town long enough to find a place to rent, unpack, start work and come up with a handful of coins to get some used books, I couldn't help blurting out, "You drove cross-country in that?"

"'You're braver than I thought!'" Dawn chirped, imitating Princess Leia.

Millennium Falcon this wasn't. It was a faded green, boxy car with plenty of scratches, dings and dents, and an entire history of faded and torn ID tags and bumper stickers on both the front and back bumpers and the edges of the back window. Carter/Mondale/76. Bicentennial Bash. 6 years' worth of parking stickers for UCLA. Another 4 years for Texas A&M. A couple of tacky sexual innuendo stickers about cowboys. The front bumper was plastered with North Texas Irish Festival and Ren Faire stickers (either a change of ownership or two people in the same house with differing tastes). Stickers for both Carter and Reagan in '80 (lending credence to the two people sharing one car theory). The Mondale/Ferraro sticker made it clear who won possession later on. Greenpeace. PETA. NRA life member. Texas Bow Hunters. Pro-choice. Anti-choice. The car was a rolling argument.

But it ran, and ran pretty well, which is all they wanted from point A to point B. And it would get them to and from work until they could afford something from this century. But Dawn and Taylor were definitely cut from the Desiderius Erasmus cloth: When I get a little money I buy books; and if any is left I buy food and clothes. It's my top selling t-shirt, and they were big believers in the statement. They were living on house brand cereal, pb&j sandwiches and ramen, but they were at the store every weekend choosing two or three books each to get them through the week.

And it was a fun way to kill time. Spend all morning or afternoon browsing books, sinking into a cozy chair for a read and let the troubles just fade away. If we were shorthanded, I'd trade manual labor for books and even throw in lunch. Win-win.

And that car was stubborn. It just wouldn't die. They had a lot of debt thanks to the Enron mistake and, rather than load another problem on their plate, they just kept the old car running instead of signing up for car payments. 2002 became 2003, 2004, 2005… The paint continued to fade, they slapped new stickers over the old (I think they were afraid they were holding the car together—better to not take them off), parts got replaced and repaired and every time they'd look at each other and say, "It's cheaper than car payments." They called Car Talk a record four times in one year. But… still it ran. It even passed emissions and safety every year. It was almost a point of pride.

Which made it so crushing when it was stolen. Stolen out of my parking lot, no less.

Dawn and Taylor were waiting when I got to the store. They happily browsed and shopped (finances were better—they allowed themselves a full tote bag every weekend), kicked in a few bucks when I sent out for pizza, stayed through the afternoon and finally decided to tumble back home at dinnertime. That's when they discovered the old Valiant was gone.

Sure they had just forgotten where they parked, they tromped the whole lot and finally gave up, coming back in to call the cops.

Dejected, they plopped into a couple of wingback chairs to wait for DC Metro. "Why would anyone steal a thirty-plus year old car?" Dawn sighed.

"Someone even more desperate than we are," Taylor said with a shrug.

"Back when I graduated from college…" They turned to look at me expectantly. "Couple of years later. I had already sunk everything into—" I spread my hands to indicate the store. "This was, oh, 1979. My car had died in a most spectacular manner. I needed a car. I found this old beater. Owned by a retiring salesman. '64 Toyota Corona. It had to have 500,000 milles on it if it had one. But it ran pretty well, he only wanted $200 and was willing to take payments over three months. If it made it a year, I could afford to upgrade. I planned to drive it a year or so and save up for something decent. But it got me to and from the store, to and from the market. This car was sad. You had to coax it into reverse; nobody else could drive it, my brother could barely get it to go. After six, seven months, I woke up and the car was gone. It was Monday—back then we were closed on Mondays, it was my one day off. I called the cops, the officer came out and we did the report. 'Year, make, model? License? Color?' 'Mostly blue.' 'Mostly?' 'The prior owner drove it to hell and back. The roof is sunburned, so the paint is stripped off to the metal. There's rust on some parts of the sides and the bumpers. And the trunk got replaced after an accident, I guess he got it from a junkyard because it's white.'"

Dawn and Taylor exchanged incredulous looks. "How many years of tacky bumper stickers?" Dawn laughed.

I held up a hand. "'Any distinguishing marks?' 'Two stickers—passing side and suicide on the back bumper, with left and right arrows. And the car hates reverse, I can make it work, but my brother borrowed it and could only park pulling through the spot. If they have to back out, they're screwed.' At this point, I heard a tiny snicker. He turned it into a cough. 'And the dome light bracket broke, so the light is dangling in midair. And the glove box lock broke, so I keep it shut with a bunjee cord.' He was trying so hard to not laugh. 'Oh! The right rear tire has a slow leak. They'll need to pump it up by tonight.'"

Tyler burst out laughing. "Oh, that poor car."

"That's when he actually laughed. And apologized. I told him I understood—and it helped to have a sense of humor about it. He admitted that it was probably three states away—if it made it that far—and it was doubtful they'd recover it."

"No car, and only halfway through saving up," Valerie said sympathetically, plopping her chin on her cupped hands.

"But only for three days."

Dawn gasped. "Three days? What?"

"Mom loaned me her car until I could figure something out. I got up, went outside—and there it was. The same officer came out, oddly enough, and he was as astonished as I was. The tire wasn't filled up—it was replaced. The officer opened up the car—and there was an envelope on the front seat with Thank You written on the outside. We opened it up—and there was a note. My car died and I had an emergency. I'm sorry, but I didn't want to wake you at two in the morning. I wanted to get the car back to you that morning, but it was really hard to drive! You really need this. Signed, an honest thief."

Everyone laughed. "He figured you needed the poor POS more than he did?" Valerie said.

"Actually… he figured I needed the new tire and the twenty dollar bill he slipped inside!"