Car

My very first car was a teal 1998 Buick Skylark. It looked exactly as cool as it sounds. I accessorized it with attractive Spongebob seat covers and matching steering wheel cover. I was grateful to have wheels but not exactly overjoyed to be driving a car identical to that of the little old lady up the street; I named my Buick "Car" because it was basically that or something like "Mildred." Mom always insisted that Car was "sporty." The only sport that came to mind when picturing my Buick was shuffleboard. This was a serious retirement community vehicle. Car did have some neat features though. Sometimes her horn would start to blow for no reason and wouldn't stop until I beat frantically on the steering wheel. This usually happened when I was at a light beside a cop car or a bunch of teenage boys. There was also a strange rattle that periodically rang out from the area of the glove compartment. I would reassure my startled passenger by telling them the Glove Compartment Demon was harmless unless provoked. On one memorable occasion Car's brakes went out completely and I shot screaming through a stop sign. When I coasted, white-faced and shaking, into our driveway and told my parents, they immediately assumed that Silly Sam had forgotten how to operate the brake pedal and went for a test drive, whereupon they too experienced the terror of barreling through a stop sign to the soundtrack of a blaring car horn and the desperate rattling of the frightened Glove Compartment Demon. Dad immediately took Car to the shop after prying Mom out of the passenger seat with a spatula. One awesome day I managed to high-center Car on the curb of our driveway. I smacked the curb so hard the tire came off the rim and was destroyed.  Dad ended up having to lift Car off the curb. Then he threw an air compressor across the yard, probably because he was so proud of what a good driver I'd become and he wanted to celebrate. My little brother was the lucky recipient of many jaunts around town in Car. Once I drove him to a piano lesson and then home on what turned out to be a completely flat tire. I was actually driving on the rim, probably throwing off sparks as I trundled down the road with my horn sounding. I did learn a lot from Car and her sporty quirks; for example, the windshield washer fluid does not actually refill every time it rains, nor does the blinker require a special oil to function. Also it's best to not talk on one's Nokia cell phone (with the one inch screen and clip on cover) while piloting a boat like Car, because one will inevitably crash into the garage door and one's father will once again be forced to hurl heavy equipment across the front yard to vent his feelings.

Eventually Adam inherited Car. He spruced her up with "No Fear" stickers and renamed her "Club X-Static."

Damn, it feels good to be a gangster.