Worst. Car. Ever.

Now that I'm a Manhattan-dwelling, tiny apartment-living mass transit user, I have no need for a car, but ah, the memories. Memories of jumpstarts, broken alternators, leaky radiators and frequent trips to the repair shop. Though I've had several sweet rides in my time, each with their own "character", one particular specimen of automotive anti-luxury stands out as the main offender:

After college graduation, I needed wheels. The solution to my transportation problem came in the form of a '92 2-door Dodge Shadow (six years old with only 7 previous owners), in a shade of metallic electric blue that scraped your retinas. This car, definitely not this color:

I have no idea where it came from, but I wouldn't be surprised if it was dredged it from a lake (my folks got it on a "really good deal"). I'm pretty sure someone was murdered in the back seat, and you could peel the paint off the sides in sheets. We sometimes did it for fun. The passenger side door wouldn't open, no matter how hard you kicked it from the inside. It was a foxy, boxy beauty.

I had this car less than a month. It made the trip from college to the new digs (about 250 miles) without completely falling apart, but two (very brave) friends and I decided to drive it another 250 miles to the beach the next day. About two hours into the trip, we begin to smell an ominous, acrid stench. We were going up a hill on the interstate when we hear chucka-chucka-bang-BANG! as that damn Shadow dropped its guts on the highway going 60mph. I swerve off at the exit we were passing, and we make it to the bottom of the ramp before the engine blows completely. So there we are, by the side of the road in a scary little redneck town in NC, with a still-smoking wreck of a car.

After walking to a gas station and calling a towing service, we got the thing hauled into the nearest garage. I asked the mechanic if he could fix it, and laughed in my face. I believe his exact words were, "I'll be lucky if they'll give me $20 for it at the scrap yard". Quickly, I decided to dump it, but not before giving it a couple kicks that left impressive dents. Two rental cars and seven hours later, we finally got to the beach. Afterward, I promptly replaced the Shadow with an old yet decent BMW 5-series. That car eventually sucked pretty bad, too, but no other car in the world has ever, can ever or will ever be a bigger piece of shit than that '92 Shadow. After suffering the Shadow and cars of its ilk, I'm actually glad to be subway-dependent.

The Karma Cycle

The Karma Cycle began back in college, with a white '92 Honda and a tire jack in an alley next to a gay bar. Holmes, Scooter and I were headed to The Brick for a beer. Holmes, the lucky dude who rolled around campus in that 2-door chick-magnet, can get a little testy behind the wheel on a good day. After spending 40 minutes looking for a parking space, he had built up a minor case of road rage. With some choice expletives, he hit the gas, but took a corner too sharp. Bam! Tire popped. The swearing having reached a fever pitch, Scooter and I knew to keep our damn mouths shut while Holmes pulled over in the first place available. Holmes limped the Honda into an alley, and we got out to survey the damage. Sure enough, the tire was completely blown, and there I was, dressed in a little pleated Burberry skirt, tights, a sweater and boots standing with two dudes who, I found out, were completely clueless about all things automotive. Now, don't let the skirt fool you. I know my way around an old car, having driven a wide variety of beaters, lemons and junkheaps in my time. In fact, I can jump a car during a red light. But that's another story.

Once we'd gotten out, we realized we'd pulled in the alley in front of a popular gay bar. As this was a Friday night, we had an audience with all the people waiting to get in. The conversation went something like this:

Scooter: "Dude, tire's blown"
Holmes: "No fucking kidding, asshole"
Me: "You got a tire jack and a spare?"
Holmes: "Maybe. Uhh..."
Me: "You know how to use it?"
Holmes: "Uhhh..."
Me: "Scooter?"
Scooter: "Uhh..."
Me: "Pussies. Guess I'm gonna have to show you how it's done."

Luckily, the previous owners of Holmes' car had left the jack and donut in the trunk. I let the two of them fumble around with it for a few minutes before scooting them out of the way, getting down on my knees and hooking the jack into the chassis where it belonged. I'm there with my skirted ass in the air and my head under the car, when unknown to me, Scooter starts cranking the jack. I feel my elbow-length hair pull a bit. I say to Scooter, "Get off my hair". I hear a voice about two feet behind me say, "I'm back here, dude". Holmes cracks up. My hair had been wound into the tire jack so far that my cheek was nearly on the pavement. We're all laughing so hard that nobody unwinds me for a good two minutes. The assembled club patrons get a look and start laughing, too. Finally Scooter comes over and sets me free. I have a massive grease-filled hairball on the right side of my head. We finish putting on the spare, and I drag my fingers through the giant, stinky greaseball the best I can and take a stab at being presentable. We miraculously find a spot and head to the bar for the long-awaited and much deserved beers. Scooter got a good job the next day.

This encounter was the origin of our particular Karma Cycle. We’ve figured out over the intervening few years that Scooter, Holmes and I share a common karma supply, and that bad luck for one or two of us means something good is in store for the other ones. If one of those dudes wins the lottery, I’m moving into a padded room for a month. Being one of the luckiest unlucky people I know, I like the idea of karma, the connectedness of everyone, sending good vibes into the universe, etc. But sometimes I hope that if I ever get a big karmic payback, that it comes in the form of cold, hard cash (preferably in unmarked, non-sequential large denomination bills).