Earl often shakes his head when we talk about cars. He’s not a super car buff, but he can tell a Lexus from a Toyota from a Saturn. Me? I can hardly tell my own car from another blue one in the supermarket parking lot.
It happened again today. With my Starbuck’s in one hand and my automatic door opener/key ring in the other, I walked to a blue car with the antenna on the back, clicking the “Open” symbol on the key ring. Then I approached the driver’s side and grabbed the handle. Yanked it. Nothing happened. Did it again. Still nothing. Began to get annoyed.
Click, click, yank, yank.
It was then I thought that maybe this wasn’t my car. Next I noticed it was a four-door; mine only has two doors. So I skulked away, hoping nobody would see me and think I was breaking and entering. Ah, yes, there was my car a couple spaces over. Click, click, yank . . . and I was in.
I don’t know what it is but cars simply don’t interest me. Years ago I walked into a dealership and told the salesman I had four thousand dollars to spend on a car, not a penny more. I wanted the car today, and I wanted a stick shift with air conditioning. Everything else was irrelevant. I walked out with a car I absolutely loved, but learned later that wasn’t exactly how to negotiate the best deal.
I come by this ignorance legitimately. Growing up, we never had a car; public busses and trains were our favorite mode of transportation. Maybe that’s why I’m so dense today. As long as my car works, I’m oblivious to its physical appearance. Or its emblem on the hood or trunk. Or whether it has spoilers or detailing or fancy tire rims. The only advantage I’m acutely aware of is that I don’t carry a bus schedule around in my pocket.
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