Category: cars

The Beater

Nice weather always steers me toward washing, waxing and polishing the cars when time becomes available. We only have one car wash in town. Reliable and pleasant ten years ago, it’s a wreck of a business today. Three of the five stalls don’t work. The other two have issues. It’s often a dice roll as to what’ll happen.

I tried washing the car first on Saturday afternoon. Six other drivers were pursuing the same idea so I went back Sunday. Both stalls were in use. After studying their activities to see which might end first, I chose stall one and pulled up to wait.

A woman was cleaning a Subaru in stall one. A beater, I thought, noting the tells of its narrowness, narrow, small wheels and tires, and elderly design. A beater is a car that’s usually old. Typically missing its wheel covers, as this one was, the car runs sufficiently for local errands but isn’t to be trusted going too far or too fast. It usually has mechanical idiosyncrasies, windows that no longer align, or doors that don’t open and close correctly. Sometimes they’re missing knobs and things like the cigarette lighter. Based on memories of friends’ vehicles, I reckoned her Subaru was a mid-1990s model. She was cleaning out its back with some household cleaner and a rag.

“This is against the roles,” my resident citizen huffed within. “You’re not allowed to use rags to wash the car at this facility.” My indignity climbed. “She doesn’t even have money in the machine!”

Well.

My interior philosopher roused himself. “Relax.”

“Relax?” How dare he suggest that I relax. Rules were being broken. Why, without rules –

“What tangible impact do her actions have on you? You’re going to wait a little longer, that’s all that I know. Do you have somewhere you’re rushing to be? No. Show patience and tolerance.”

Well. His reminder miffed me. Mind you, he was right, but still. It’s the thought, right? She’s breaking the rules. And being intolerant and inconsiderate, right? If she’s breaking these rules, what other rules does she break?

“As if you don’t break rules,” the philosopher said. “Distract yourself. Kill time. Play with your stereo.”

I did as he suggested. After a few minutes, I glanced up. She was spraying her car now, actually washing it.

Well.

Another car had arrived. I glanced at the other stall to see how far they’d advanced. Walls obscured my view. I didn’t know how close they were to ending. They were using the wand again, versus the brush.

Well.

I resumed fiddling with the stereo. Her car’s engine noise drew my attention. She pulled up to the end of the stall.

What the hell?

What was she doing?

She continued cleaning but obviously not with the spray.

Was she finished?

I pulled into the stall. Exiting my car, I called, “Are you done in the stall?”

“Yes. I need to do more but I ran out of quarters.”

The facility has a change machine. I always bring sufficient quarters because the change machine is often broken. I collect them for this purpose. How anal am I? “I have quarters, if you need them,” I said.

She laughed. “No, I think it needs more than quarters. It’s an old beater. My last kid has left the nest. I don’t need a beater any more, so I’m cleaning it to sell it. You know, first impressions.” She laughed again.

“I see.” She was right. The car needed more than a car wash. Wax, polish…paint…rust remover….

“I’m hoping someone else will buy it,” she said.

Well, of course it would need to be someone else, I thought with irritation.

She continued, “Somebody must need a beater.”

I nodded. “Yes. Everyone should own a beater at least once in their life.”

Washing my car, I thought of my beater. That horrible brown Oldsmobile was at the top of the list. What a mess it was but my wife and I were both working, and had needed a second car. Other beaters? None came to mind. The cars I owned in Germany, an Audi, BMW and Merc, were over twenty years old by the time I gained title to them but all were robust and well-maintained vehicles. My wife fondly remembers the BMW 2002 as one of the best cars we ever owned. The newest of the trio was the 1980 Audi 100. It was the one that failed us, throwing a rod while blazing down the Autobahn. Likewise, the Toyotas we owned in Okinawa were more than ten years old but mechanically and cosmetically fine. I didn’t consider them beaters. I trusted all of them. Of course, Okinawa was an island. We couldn’t drive far without running into ocean.

The woman finished. “Have a good day,” she called, getting into her car.

I nodded. “Good luck selling your car.”

She laughed. “Thanks.”

I watched her drive away. The car looked okay.

I hoped she sold it. Somebody probably needed a beater.

 

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The Dream Car

My dream memories are weakening. Perhaps as a subset of aging, we begin forgetting our dreams. Perhaps our dreams are the reality, and we’re forgetting reality. Maybe both are reality and both are dreams. Can we hold those two ideas in our heads?

Either way, I remember dreaming last night but don’t recall much of them. Perhaps that’s because I slept almost seven and a half hours. The dream I remember features an enterprise being conducted in my garage. I was recovering and re-furbishing junk and trash with other people. They were at a loss about what to do with it. But I was like, “Just fix it up and put a price on it. That’s what I do. Don’t overthink it. Just price it and forget it, and people will buy it.”

The garage, a double car space, was well-lit. One of my recovered treasures was a car parked alongside me. The car was an almost mint 1965 Ford Mustang convertible. I’d found it and fixed it. Now it was mine.

I had it in the garage but pulled forward. Behind it, in the garage, I’d spread a large blanket on which I’d collected and worked on items. Working on something small in my hand, cleaning it and putting it back together, I was absently answering questions posed by another. I neither remember the questions nor the questioner, nor my answers. What I recall is that some copper metallic exotic car rolled past with a howl of sound outside. And I paused to watch and identify it. I don’t know what make the car was, only that it was rare and expensive, which I was telling my companion, laughing as I did, wondering why such a car was in this neighborhood.

Then the exotic car returned. Slowing, the unseen driver executed a u-turn in the street but didn’t drive away. “Ah, they’re looking at the car,” I said as I realized it. “They’re impressed with this old Mustang.” As they should be, I thought, looking at the car. White, its top was down. It was rust-free, with clean lines, and waxed and polished.

“I should sell that,” I said, realizing that others would want this car, and then smiled, pleased that I had such a car.

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Pocket Change

Some loose thoughts rattling around in my mind’s pocket.

  • Trivial Pursuit was released on this day in 1979. My wife and I love the game. We eat at Brothers, where old cards are on the table so we can ask and answer the questions. Trivial Pursuit replaced Risk as my preferred game. My friends and I used to have monstrous Risk parties when I was stationed at Kadena AB. Empire became my favorite computer. It ruled for a few years during my Germany tour.
  • The Risk and Empire parties always featured beer, wine and cigars. Risk was an iffier proposition where beer was considered. We were on Okinawa. This was the early 1980s. There weren’t many great beer offerings. My friends drank Miller Lite. Gads. I was always searching for something. We didn’t have this problem in Germany, where plenty of decent beers of all preferences were available.
  • I was a great cigar smoker back in those days. Churchills were favorites but I liked Madura wraps.
  • My beer group met last night. We collect money from our weekly meetings to donate to local STEM efforts. Last night, two representatives from Southern Oregon Area Robotics came and collected $500 from us and give us an update about their progress, victories, plans and losses. This money helps them with material and transportation costs as they compete in robot competition.
  • One of the SOAR students last night is graduating high school this year and will be attending design schools. She loves designing cars. I love car designs and my friends do not, so it was terrific to discuss the Ferrari J50, BMW i8 and other designs with her.

  • You always need to figure out how they like it. Maybe it’s just me, as a buddy at Onizuka Air Station used to say, but cats don’t all like to be petted the same way. Tucker enjoys a good belly stroke but you must first follow certain protocols to be permitted belly access. Deviations can be dangerous. Whereas DO NOT TOUCH BOO ON THE BELLY. I repeat, DO NOT TOUCH BOO ON THE BELLY.  Don’t attempt to scratch his chin, either. We don’t know what happened in Boo’s past life, but he’s tremendously leery of being touched and he will attack you without any warning, so I’m warning you. Yet, someone will always try.
  • Quinn, on the other hand, is a little love bug, throwing himself down at your feet, visiting with strangers on the street, whatever. He’s a happy little loving cat.
  • A decent dark beer remains absent from our beer offerings where we meet each week. The porter on hand has a cream soda flavor that we detest. Enduring wasn’t a problem, as we imbibed the most excellent Ashland Amber Ale from Caldera and Ninkasi  Tricerahops DIPA. As always, the conversation was interesting and the time was gone as fast as the beer.
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