When you get a bill from your mechanic that tops $4 grand, you kinda figure your rig will be good-to-go for any kind of tripping on any kind of road. Instead, after six months of “service” I found myself humming a new jingle for their future adverts:
We’ll put the dill in you.
Don’t forget to pick up your wallet,
You’ll sit fine in a week or two.”
So, instead of the green steed that the Rover is, carrying me on this new journey, I had to take the exfoliating Datsun, who’s clear coat was clearly all-but-falling off; peeling up at every corner–crippled old skin, reaching towards heaven in one final, pathetic gasp.
But as I stare out the window of my $30 room in Kingman, AZ, the first trace of moisture has hit the air. The beads of water on my car’s hood are bubbling. Fat, squat dancers on a sea of milk. Yeah, I went with a creamy white paint job, hoping to add some class to the look. I think the original James Bond grey was a better color. The long hood, the tight retro grill, just wreaks of spy car … well, sorta. Like if Bond had a family, this would be the ride to the weekend house, luggage up top.
One dear friend said, “David, you must be a very confident, secure man to drive an old car like that, especially one with fading paint.” I thought how I must have fooled her and everyone else. I’m as vain as anyone when it comes down to it. This car makes me look taller, darker and well, it’s a handsome ride don’t you think?