Hammer Time: Two Uglies and a Brute

Her aquatic face. Her distorted contortions . . . a Kermit Green 1998 Ford Taurus Wagon was coming through the auction lane. She had been loved by at least three other mommies and no doubt had an affair with at least a half dozen mechanics. She was big. She was beautiful. And for $600 she was mine. Then I put down the beer . . . “What the hell am I doing!” When the Carmax auction was all said and done, I had bought three cars that were the equivalent of automotive leprosy. The Taurus wagon was one of them of course. But the clean interior and Duratec engine took the sting out of that lapse of reason. She also drove well on the forty mile journey through Atlanta rush-hour traffic. This fat lady could apparently sing. But the other two?

1998 Buick Skylark. Even typing that on my computer causes a mild bout of nausea. This was the last year of the Skylark (thank God!) and other than clean sheetmetal and a functional interior, it had nothing to offer. I’m serious. This car has everything from a beancounted interior to seats that were built during the Spanish Inquisition. But, hell, for $700, I decided to put a bag on top of its sea bass-inspired front grille and took it down the road.

Finally the brute. Excursions, Canyoneros, and poseur boy Hummers have got nothing on a genuine 1991 GMC Suburban Diesel. This goliath of almighty Detroit brutality doesn’t belong on public roads. It belongs on a farm transporting two sets of the Duggar family through Deliverance country. The model I bought was virtually immaculate. It was almost freakish given that it had nearly 220,000 miles. Not. Even. A. Ding. Interior cleaned by someone who may be related to Felix Unger.

I bowed to the prior owner’s servitude and bought it for $700. Even though she will be briefly in my hands, I’ll make sure she ends up with a good owner. It’s the least I can do for the couple who kept it right for fifteen years.