My fiancé wiped it down with my mom’s good towel – the first one he saw hanging in the bathroom for guests as he heard the garage door go up. I eked out a “Wow.” Maybe he thought I’d jump up and down like on The Price is Right when Rod Roddy screamed, “A NEW CAR!” But I spent the day wiping up bodily fluids from old people and wanted to just soak in a bath.
“So, whaddya think?” he said, building up dirt and grime on a towel my mom might cry about later. Not wanting to disappoint, I sat down in its plush seats and they felt good. It was better than my parents’ car I previously drove – a 1984 Renault Alliance affectionately called “Appliance.” Everyone in Kenosha owned one since we manufactured them there.
In contrast, my new Buick was sleek, shiny and…well, new. New is good, right? I thought. He was a little hard to steer and harder to park, but my fiancé surprised me with it so I decided to like it. I drove it to work and showed it off to my co-workers. “Look what my fiancé bought for me,” I’d say. But I smelled trouble like a dog sniffing the DNA of a criminal on the lam.
One day, I pulled out during a funeral procession because I was late for work and wasn’t sure what to do. A man got out of the car and told me, “You don’t pull out during a funeral procession!” I said, “I just got my license, sorry.” Devil Car gritted its teeth at me through the grille.