A car like mine gives birth to many life lessons.
The 1996 VW Jetta has many features that may detract superficial women, like three hubcaps, virtually no shocks, no cruise, broken windshield wipers, missing left-front speaker and a collection of fun mechanical noises.
As Rachel put it, “Your car sounds like its farting.”
But I love her and intentionally bought her with body damage. We’ve trudged through life together, like the summer she died in Minneapolis when I was dressed in shirt and tie, preparing to barge into some high-brow PR place demanding an internship.
Instead I spent five weeks on a couch, unemployed and intern-less before caving in and working at Costco, where I lied to get a job and climbed the corporate ladder from put-soccer-mom’s-things-into-boxes to booze salesman extraordinaire.
That summer we towed the Jetta twice, the first 15 minutes after Harry called on a Friday morning and told me I had to choose a repair shop immediately—the tow truck was in route. I chose a repair chain founded on a king who turns stuff into gold, where they told me they had no idea what was wrong, but they’d be happy to look around for $90/hour.
Thanks, but no thanks.
So it’s almost as if I closed my eyes and pointed in the super sized phone book, landing on a foreign car repair place somewhere in Minneapolis. The tow truck driver and I arrived in what appeared to be a less-than-welcoming portion of town, with two old hippie-influenced Volkswagen vans parked in the driveway.
It shocked me that alternative smoke wasn’t pouring from the windows.
After trying to hot wire the car (seriously), the mechanic, bearded and Cheech-and-Chong influenced, as expected, told me it was the fuel pump. Naturally, being a holiday weekend, it would be Tuesday until she was ready to roll again.
“How do I get home?” I asked. He looked, pointed, and said, “The bus stop is over there.” There was very little I knew about Minneapolis, as a member of the upper Michigan artic persuasion, the bus stop was very confusing and intimidating.
When I arrived, a woman with a number of children was there, sitting on the bench. Her boy then dropped his pants to his ankles and began peeing on a tree.
Such freedom.
The brakes on the bus hissed, and I got on, looking at the bus driver like we were from different planets. “Uh, downtown?” I asked. Handing him some bills, he did his thing and I received my ticket, and sat paranoid on the bus as the city passed by.
Knowing which street I lived on, but not exactly its location, I evaluated the city as a bird flies, recognized certain skyscrapers, then exited the bus at a familiar location, close to the place where I saw a photo of Kirby Puckett, my now-deceased childhood baseball hero, plastered on the front page of the Star Tribune newsstand for sexually harassing women.
I still blame the ’94 strike for killing baseball, and Kirby’s unfortunate antics for opening my eyes to the dangers of celebrity and putting mortals on pedestals.
So I exited the bus, and ended up walking a mile to our apartment, where I proceeded to again take my rightful place on the blown-out couch. On Tuesday, Harry brought me to the shop, and said something like, “Dude, you should not be over here.”
The mechanic offered me the old fuel pump, which I took for some odd reason and probably tossed in a dumpster. When he wouldn’t accept checks from my new bank account, he threatened to keep the car. “I’m serious, my parents just put money in the account, the check is good,” I pleaded.
“I tell you what. If you come back with $300 in cash, I’ll give you your car,” he said. Next thing I know I’m at the gas station hoping the daily limit on my ATM card will allow it, and it does. When I hand him the cash, I get my keys and some sort of receipt that suggests some form of tax evasion is happening.
Its stories like this where the Jetta teaches me things about life.
Now, it is sad to report that after nearly four years in the vicinity of this city, I’ve yet to take public transport, minus a late-night cab ride. Today was my day.
Well-dressed (oddly enough, I bought the shirt I’m wearing for 25 cents from a thrift store in Minneapolis) in black shoes, headed to a high-brow marketing event where people act important, I turn the key in the ignition.
Nothing. Then the alarm goes off. I walk around the car to shut it off and go inside, feeling defeated. I’ve got 15 minutes to get downtown. So I call a couple friends. Nothing. Business partner is out of the office today. Such karma.
Wait, the bus. Yes, the bus.
Just like five years ago, the last time I needed the bus in the States. I’ve ridden nearly everything—buses, trains, Cessna’s, ferries, taxis, VW bugs, airplanes, hallowed out canoes, you name it—in various places around the world, but I’ve never had to use the public bus in a metropolitan city I’ve lived in for four years?
Something is wrong. After going to the ATM, I start running (which quickly turns into a fast walk) down snowy streets, leather gloves and leather folder in hand, to the corner grocery store I’ve been to countless times.
A bus sign. I call the bus station and ask the receptionist when it’s going downtown. 10 minutes. Perfect. A woman waiting with me who is slightly slow and trying to zip up her jacket in the cold, kindly tells me that I can purchase a 10 ride pass for $10, but I must tell the driver about my plans.
The brakes hiss. Murphy’s Law kicks in when I attempt to make the pass purchase, my $10 bill looks like it’s been hanging out in washing machines for six months. Finally, after a delay, imagining all eyes are on me, I get my pass, put it in the wrong way, the driver corrects me, and I sit down.
This was only a bus ride, but it says something about who I think I am, the opportunities I’ve been blessed with, and the strong, wicked divisions that still exist in this land, most often involving income, race, social status, education—persecution of which I am aware of, but acutely oblivious to, most of the time.
On top of it all, I put on my best clothes to go to this meeting to essentially try and impress people, where a former Starbucks executive tells a room full of us who think we are important about how a coffee chain is taking over the world, from one to 15,000 locations in 36 years.
We applaud his intelligence, his wit, his strategies, his ability to make money with add-ons and crappy CDs and for ultimately, turning a cup of coffee into a $4.50 experience.
And after it’s all over, everyone exits the trendy bar via the $8 parking ramp in SUVs and Mercedes and BMWs, and I find myself back on the bus, wondering why all these divisions have to be.
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