I came home from work at the nursing home scumming in white clothes that night. The garage door opened to show the Devil. You know how they say the Devil will never look like what you expect with horns, hooves and pitchfork? He’ll be smooth, slick and handsome. That was my new black 1989 Buick Skylark bought by my soon-to-be ex-fiance. 

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.