I decided to sell my car. It just wasn’t worth it, in my mind. The calculations were not in my favor. There were many things wrong with it and I did not have enough money to fix it. A strange creaking noise emanated from the rear suspension, stopping whenever I craned my neck to look. A failed emissions test and then a failed retest. I vacuumed the car in the hopes that a clean interior might prompt a magical mechanical recovery. Broken window theory, etc. No dice. The old problems continued, and were joined by a new one: the creeping sense that given enough time, the litany of mechanical problems afflicting the car might jump ship and begin affecting other components of my life.
I’m not a superstitious person. My mother is very superstitious. I think this is the reason why I am not superstitious. I am afraid that if I become superstitious that I will become more like my mother. I try not to think about it too much. The mechanic from the garage by the beach called me up. He was a really tall black man. In the shop earlier, I had considered telling him that, beach-side or not, I had never before seen such a tall black man working at a garage before. He had asked me where I was from and when I told him, he was interested.
“Do you know Tony Colon?”
“No.”
“What about Kendall Williams?”
“No, sorry.”
“When did you graduate high school?”
“Two thousand and eight.”
“Oh, so you might know Erica Stevitz.”
“Nope.”
I had never heard of these people before. I don’t remember many of the people I went to high school with, but I think that the utterance of their names would prompt some basic cognitive recall. Maybe these people weren't real.
I left the shop thinking about Erica Stevitz. Who was she? Was she beautiful? Was my life less full because I didn’t know Erica Stevitz from high school? What if Erica Stevitz was meant to be my friend, neighbor, co-worker, or lover? What if I was missing out all because of some seemingly inconsequential error in high school registration data. I got sent to this school and my destiny got sent over there.
I was riding a bicycle back from the garage. I brought the bicycle in the back of my car and dropped my car off at the garage, and now I was riding my bicycle back. This is great, I thought to myself. I love riding this bicycle. I should do this more often.
I didn’t make it halfway before the tall black man from the garage called me.
“This car is scrap. The bottom is all rusted out. I wouldn’t drive this myself, for safety reasons.”
I rode my bicycle back to the garage and inspected the car and I nodded in agreeance, very unsafe. I didn’t mention anything about not being able to afford a replacement car. It just didn’t seem like the right time.
I loved the tall black man, he was so personable. I wanted to be his friend and stay up late at night and watch movies with him. Not wanting to scare him off with my enthusiasm and friendliness, I left very abruptly, taking car to drive the car slowly over bumps in the road. Potholes that before seemed like harmless nuisances now took on a menacing demeanor.
It took me about three days to sell the car. I was surprised by this. I put the car on craigslist with a very straightforward advertisement. My best friend from college, John, is a very straightforward person, so I wrote the advertisement from his point of view. How would John describe my car? I listed the statistics in a clear and concise bullet point format. My impressions of the car? Unsafe to drive. Low miles. Good interior. I took eight high quality photographs as well as a video to show that the car started up without issue and that the motor was in good shape. I double checked my spelling and grammar.
There are a lot of advertisements on craigslist with poor spelling and grammar.
Apparently this is not completely reflective of the consumer demographic, because I had a lot of calls interested in the car and even though I told them it was unsafe to drive, several people came out to look at the car and offer me money for it.
Eventually I sold it to a short man named Shawn. Shawn drove up from New York City to look at the car and He had an easily excitable face; he was always smiling with such force that a small island of spittle existed permanently at the corners of his lips. He bought it on the spot and payed me $800 for it in cash. I made him promise me that he would fix it before driving it very hard. He promised he would. He returned a week later in a taxi-cab and picked the car up. I left the key with my brother to give to Shawn when he picked up the car, as I was still at work.
Now I ride to work on my motorcycle. Riding to work on a motorcycle is not bad at all. It is very fun and exciting, and keeps my mind focused in the mornings. Still, it is inconvenient to do with a motorcycle all of the things you used to do with a car. For example, I cannot pick up anyone at the train station anymore. I cannot buy more than a handful of groceries at a time. Riding to the gym is inadvisable because of all the riding gear that I need to store away while exercising, so now I just walk or take my bicycle to the gym.
I tried to listen to music while riding. The earphones got caught on the inside of my helmet because they protrude every so slightly. In addition to being physically painful, listening to music is a nuisance in other ways. Volume, for one. I can’t adjust the volume of the music while riding nor can I change a song if I don’t like it. So I stopped listening to music. Instead I wear foam ear plugs to protect my ears from the roar of the engine and the high-pitched whistle of wind on the highway. Someone recently asked me, do you get bored when you ride the bike, especially on long trips? I said no. I said it was nice to be alone with my thoughts, which was not a lie.
Here's a photograph I recently took of my little brother's beagle, named Ollie.
