Hammer Time: A Mitzvah!

Way back in the good old days of 1997, my wife was driving an old Steenkin’ Lincoln. The only claim to fame any 1983 Lincoln Mark VI would ever have was a brief cameo as a coffin for Spock in Star Trek III. Like Spock’s last ride, we literally needed to use everything to keep this one going. Thumbtacks, duct tape, a staple gun for holding various parts upright. I bought so many fluids and parts on a weekly basis that all the help at the parts store knew me by my first name. The thing was a mess. Well, after it hit 220k, it started to make really scary sounds. Even SUV drivers were now giving her space and I knew it was time to start prospecting for a cheap used car.

It just so happened that the local newspaper (remember those?) had a slew to choose from. The list was mind-boggling. But since I was driving a Camry at the time, I decided to start with those. Cheapest one? $2500. A 1986 model that was only a mile away from my college alma mater. Called up the owner. It turned out he was a nouveau-riche doctor from Emory who enjoyed his old Camry so much, he bought another one. So much for originality. But hey! I had a Camry too! What could go wrong?

Well, I was already suspicious when I arrived at his place and saw the Camry running . . . with nobody in it. I knocked on the door. We shook hands. I got the keys. We went. A mile down the road I made a turn. Grooaann!!! Swish! Swish! The Camry had water in the trunk and four very tired shocks. By the time we went through the third turn I was daydreaming of old caves and wondering what would be the kindest way to say, “No way!”

He asked me if I wanted to take it on the highway and I said, “Yeah, sure!” Why the hell not? It was only time and I was poor, so time didn’t really mean that much. We got on the highway. It wasn’t that bad. But not really good. I turned off the interstate and that’s when one of the City of Atlanta’s finest saw us.

Red light . . . siren . . . holy shit! I was being pulled over. When he asked me for the license and registration, I gave him my future fugitive picture and said in the most cowardly manner, “Sir, the car belongs to him.” “Where’s your tag?” said the cop. “Don’t have one” said the nouveau-riche shmuck next to me. I was tempted to throw a quick right hook but instead I just counted the few moments I had before incarceration.

When the policeman found out that Dr. Doogie Dumbfuck didn’t have insurance for the car either, I began seeing more red. Another police car. Another police car. A tow truck. Twenty minutes, and I was standing in shorts in 40 degree weather with nowhere to go. When my enlightened co-pilot asked if he could get a ride, “Walk!” would be the policeman’s answer. Thankfully we were only two miles away from my wife’s work place.

I was nice. Very nice. A bit philosophical . . . and freezing my balls off. Finally we made it to my wife’s workplace and I offered to take the guy home. When he asked where her car was, I pointed to the bashed up burgundy boat and said, “This is it!”

In the next few moments, my newfound acquaintance became introduced to the mostly foam passenger seat and a $20 mini boom box next to it that was tuned to The Mamas & the Papas. When he asked what type of work my wife did, I mentioned her work at an interfaith TV station that was full of amazingly normal people. No one could proselytize. No one could ask for funds. And no one could put down another religion.

Atlanta has a H-U-G-E religious community and many of the largest mainstream ones were involved with it. When he found out that I was planning on going to grad school for teaching he bluntly said, “Look, you’re a nice guy. If you paid me $500 all you would need to do is pay the impound fee and it’s yours.” “Damn, thanks,” I said . . . and that’s how I drove and bought my first used car. A 1986 silver Toyota Camry LE with 129k.