An Inhuman Condition

The car never starts in this weather, and it’s shaky when it does. The damn thing is old enough its developed arthritis. It creaks and moans with the painful fury of age longing for the reaper’s scythe. It sees the other cars on the road – bright, young things with a future. They’ve got all sorts of comforts it never had – heated seats, GPS, remote starters. When it was new, older cars probably envied things like seat belts and fuel injectors, but not anymore. New is the new old. Old is forgotten, thrown away, taken for granted. It can still move on good days, my car. It’s probably happy to still be out in the world instead of sent away to a junkyard somewhere to be poked and prodded. Cars these days.

Everyone says I should buy a new car, and, believe me, I agree. I’m not attached to the old bastard. We’ve had a good run, but it limps along begging to be put down. I just can’t afford to replace it. The housing market crashed. The banks all went broke, and the auto industry collapsed. Despite all of it, the cost of a car is still ten grand plus. Even a decent used car is going to cost three thousand, and I couldn’t get a loan to buy a cup of coffee. If I saved up, I might be able to buy some $500 clunker with more internal problems than my ex-girlfriend. I guess I just don’t want to gamble on all that. I’d rather deal with the devils I know, and I know my car won’t start right now.

It’s not a big deal; I sweep enough snow off to get a screwdriver under the hood. I’m able to get it at just the right angle to pop the clasp. I hook up the trickle charger, and walk back in the house for my hot cocoa. A good fifteen minutes go by, and I’m back out to check the charge. The old prick needs to be a good third up the dial, and not a millimeter shy. This is my routine; I wake up an hour early to deal with the car. It’s become my morning company since Megan left. I talk to the car; we fight. It’s always stubborn, but I win in the end. It was the same with Meg – she’s back in Ohio with her parents, and I’m the winner now.

It sure is cold in January. I would trade the car for a jump forward to May. I don’t think I’d miss it much if the weather were better. It’s barely a car as it is. The thing chews belts and bleeds oil. If I had a dollar for every piece of duct tape acting as a sieve, I’d have a good fifteen dollars. With that kind of money, I could take the bus or bribe Rick to pick me up for a month. Five more minutes pass, and I break out the bottle of Longhorn “Fine, Aged Bourbon Whiskey” – $13.77 after tax for a handle. It’s acrid, foul stuff, but it gives me a kick and warms my heart. I toast: “To Pops, my cranky bastard of a car.”

I start in a little deep, but nobody’s going to say anything about it at work. There’s this passive-aggressive fog that smothers everything there. They might smell it and suspect, but I don’t give a shit anymore. If they fired me, I wouldn’t need the damn car anyway. It would be nice – a quiet vacation alone. Sometimes I think it costs me almost as much as I make to keep going in anyway. It’s like I’m giving them my time in exchange for something to do. I toast again: “To my shitty pit of a job and whore-snake co-workers!”

After a half-dozen shots, I’m sure the battery is charged. I don’t want to go, but I have to. How else am I ever going to afford that new car or next week’s whiskey or whatever other crap I’ll find along the way? It doesn’t matter, anyway. “To my dearest Megan – I fucking won.”