Some visitors to my old website, Cyclops McGinnis’ Nonsense, may remember a short pictorial ode that I composed to my then-new car, known as Cadzilla II. Not very modern, perhaps, but her assets in the areas of Power, Comfort and Bling were all in order. I like to think that I treated her with the respect, dignity and class befitting such a regal specimen. Last week, to thank me for my efforts over the nearly five years since, she exploded.
I’m exaggerating, of course. What visitors to my website?
In the interest of the full disclosure that my nonexistent readership deserves, I will admit that the ensuing years and the circumstances therein had not been especially kind to my proud old Cadillac. One of its headlight lenses was shattered by a pickup truck that backed into me in a McDonald’s drive-thru, and a spinout into a guard rail on a snow-saturated I-495 left a similar calling card on one of the tail lights. The chrome fender, just showing the first signs of rust at the inception of my ownership of the car, had peeled almost totally away in an eruptive fit of decay. A regrettable encounter with a fire hydrant had left an angry horizontal dent on one side. To say that the “coach roof” had seen better days would be an understatement of similar magnitude to saying “George W. Bush is not exactly Isaac Newton”.
However, it had its charms. A V8 engine never hurt anybody, if they can swallow the receipt at the gas pump (helpful hint: chase it with some vodka when you get home). Ample cargo space made it possible to flee my cheating ex-girlfriend’s apartment with all my belongings in a single day between when she left for work and when she came home. And any time you’re dealing with a car that sports gold trim and a two-tone white and blue leather interior, you cannot deny its all-important Pimp Factor.
All of that said, Cadzilla II was pretty clearly on her last legs (Tires? No, according to my traditional good fortune I had just paid to have them replaced) by the time of my trip to Boston for the Dane Cook show on New Year’s Day. She was plagued with leaks, of which the oozing radiator was only the latest example. And the transmission…well, that old man had already decided in its last weeks that if it was nearing the end of its life, it was damn well going to shift gears when it felt like it. Once I was most of the way into the city, the transmission was tired, it had had enough, and it gave up the ghost, which is an old expression which here means “blew up with a very loud noise and a lot of smoke”.
Stranded on the side of I-93 near Somerville, with my sister arriving in the city in a short while to meet me, I really had no choice but to start walking. A friendly cab driver picked me up and drove me the rest of the way in without charging me a fare (although I insisted on tipping him) and, at that point, I figured it would be safe to let the car sit for a little bit while Kait and I enjoyed the show. After all, I’d seen cars sit abandoned alongside I-93 for days. But when my sister drove me back to the spot where the old girl had finally given up, it was gone.
I have to admit, if I am to lose a vehicle in such a way, I always dreamed of something more spectacular. Somehow I envision myself among Captain Kirk’s crew, staring wistfully up at the sky from the surface of the Genesis planet as the flaming wreckage of the Enterprise descends across the heavens to its rocky grave. At the very least Cadzilla deserved a fiery explosion from which I would dive to the pavement in slow motion. Granted, the plume of black smoke that my car trailed behind it before I was able to pull over was probably fairly impressive to bystanders, but for her to just vanish afterward…so anti-climactic.
I don’t know who took the car, I don’t know where it is, and I don’t much care. Replacing a transmission is not a prospect my bank account takes a fancy to; nor is the prerequisite of first having the car towed all the way from Boston. Still I was left with the imminent need for a new vehicle, and not a whole lot of ready funds with which to acquire one. Only one option seemed viable: the interstate auto auction.
I’d never been to a live auction of any kind, auto or otherwise, and I was expecting a duplicate scenario to those I’d seen on TV: throngs of bidders thrusting numbers in the air to bid frantically on their car of choice, while a husky man in a big black cowboy hat strafes the crowd with rapid-fire bursts of incomprehensible numbers: “Fourfiftyfourseventyfivefourseventyfivefourseventyfivefourfifty, comeonfolksthisisabeautifulhunkofcar, onlyaCommunistwouldevenconsidernotbiddingit’sREALCLEANfolks, yousiryesyouIseefourseventyfivefivehundredfivehundredfourseventyfive, fourseventyfivefourseventyFIVE…SOLD!” You probably would have similar expectations from seeing the same programs I have.
I’m here to report the following: that guy is there and that’s exactly what auctions are like. The cowboy-hatted man sat atop his perch machinegunning us with the virtues and going bid for each car as it rolled through the chilly auction warehouse. I felt like I was bidding on livestock. Mr. Ten Gallon was joined by two assistants who patrolled the floor area sporting similar – but slightly less impressive – black cowboy hats. The job of these men, as far as I could tell, was to berate the crowd for not bidding higher. They were shocked, nay, ashamed for us when a shiny 2001 Mitsubishi Diamante failed to sell for at least $3,000. They screamed out, in an admonishing tone, notable features of each car that we had clearly failed to evaluate. “LEATHER, GUYS! COME ON!!” They seemed particularly awed by any instance of a sunroof or moonroof, and would fall to their knees in zealous genuflection whenever one was spotted, shouting only “ROOF! ROOF!” while gesturing euphorically.
The bid acknowledgements were rattled off so fast that when I finally worked up the nerve to bid on something, I didn’t know at first that I’d won. But win one I did.
And what did I win? Ladies and gentlemen, my midnight blue 1993 Ford Escort station wagon. Yes, that’s right. The contrast between this safe, economical and family-friendly vehicle and my old boilerplate of 1980s luxury could hardly be more stark. I paid off my winning bid – a very reasonable $325 – snatched the key, and climbed into what will be my new home for one hour out of every workday.
“Eh…is this a standard??”
Well…it’ll be a learning experience. I’m already starting to get the hang of it, to the relief of those motorists I’ve already stalled in front of. And to tell the truth, not living in constant fear of your automobile’s imminent collapse is actually a pretty slick feeling. We’re off to a good start, this new car and I…though, of course, the honeymoon with Cadzilla II was similar. I think no one will blame me if I steer well clear of McDonald’s drive-thrus for awhile.
