A Favorite Essay from 20 Years Ago - The Red Rocket: Love/Hate Relationship with Car "Builds Character"

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Battles) — Fri, 16 Mar 2018 06:37:00 +0000

(From a college essay, later printed in the April 1998, Express Magazine, Auburn, AL)

This may seem like an entirely random piece, but it is here for two reasons. The first is that I love to whine about
my car, because I’ve gotten good at it. Second, laughing about my car helps me retain my sanity. Maybe someone out there will relate, and God bless your poor heart if you do. Ever since my uncle pulled it into my
driveway seven years ago, I have built a deeply ambiguous relationship with my car. It has been a long,
dysfunctional courtship marked by bouts of demonic hysteria that are met in depth of passion only by the gleeful
peaks of euphoria I have experienced in it, mostly because it is a convertible.

The word “convertible” conjures images of a sporty coupe racing down the coastline of life with a reckless
abandon. This is not the case with my car. It is a 1986 Dodge 600 K-series convertible — a drop-top “K,” or “The
Red Rocket,” as my co-workers have dubbed it.

My parking registration reads: “Body: red; Top: white,” but this is an idealistic approach to the truth. It should
read, “Body: red, with drips; Top: aged ecru, with small cigarette burn hole likely from passing 18-wheeler or
careless friend, warped from a latching error which led to a subsequent fly-back on Interstate 85 West.”

It has its quirks. The locks do not work. The upholstery is ripped. The passenger door window does this
fascinating bit where it gets caught in the aforementioned warped top allowing the door to open only when the
window is down. The right-side speakers are blown, so the high-speed sounds that sometimes emanate from the
undependable cassette player (the radio doesn’t work) are heard from just the left side of the car. The top leaks,
as did several oil seals in the first engine of the Rocket. Oh yes, I have split the life of my car into two eras, the
O.E. and the N.E., that is, the Old Engine and the New Engine eras.

During the latter part of the O.E., things got bad. At red lights, smoke poured from beneath the hood as spilt oil
burned, giving the charming illusion that the car was overheating. I had learned to ignore it. Its assorted rattles
and its rumbling idle during O.E. prevented any perception on the part of the driver of serious malfunctions, such
as a shredded back tire on Interstate 59 out of Tuscaloosa.

“I noticed it was flat five miles back, but you were going too fast for me to flag you down,” said the nice old trucker
who broke the rust off my tire jack (leaky trunk) and re-inflated my also-flat doughnut spare that horrid day.

Little did I know of the hell to come. But no, I was feeling confident in the ‘Rocket this past spring break. After all,
from 1994 to 1997 O.E., it had taken me to Knoxville in an ice storm, to the beaches of Florida twice and from
Auburn, Ala. to Decatur, Ala. and on to Nashvile, Tenn. Lord knows how many times. It had about 190,000 miles
on it and it was going like the Energizer Bunny.

Then the night came that I thought was Old Red’s Last Stand. I drove straight from here to Nashville. Then, I
drove back to Decatur for a night, got bored, and went back to Nashville for a couple of days. Then, I drove to
Birmingham to catch some friends’ show at City Stages and drove back to Decatur. The ‘Rocket was Rockin!
Nothing could stop it from its way back to Auburn for summer quarter classes, or so I thought.

And then it slung a rod.

The abominable K choked, gagged and refused to be revived seven miles from Jemison, Ala. at about 10 p.m.
Lo and behold, a trucker stopped immediately and we both looked at the vulgar, vigilante engine rod that had
flung itself through the oil pan from which the lifeblood of my car poured onto the cold, bleak shoulder of the road
in the dark, dark night.

“You got BAD engine problems,” said he.

The trucker then told me to grab my valuables and took to me to the next exit with a phone. Sidenote: I would
have had a car phone, but the lighter socket would not have worked anyway. So there I sat, alone at the Shell
station, with my “valuables” — red flaming cowboy boots and my fat cat screaming in his carrier — while my
parents came to retrieve me.

A new motor would go into my car. It was the final plan after much deliberation, because my stepfather can do
such things and had a mechanic friend with a motor. I grumbled about the logic, but was swiftly reminded that I
would not be footing the bill. So I waited not-so-patiently and The ‘Rocket rode again just a few weeks ago.

I saw no flaw in the thing upon its return. I knew, however, that the “new life” given to the car was not natural. It
had this deep, demonic rumble that could be felt in the bone marrow as I drove. It was as if the old, comfortable
corpse of my car had been possessed by this new engine. So began the short N.E. era. I drove it a month.

It began to leak oil. I had the leaks fixed. It drove like a dream — for a day. Then, it started making helicopter
noises at red lights and stop signs. Everyone in the circulation area of this magazine probably heard it and
wondered. Now you know. It seems that the rigged-up flywheel had decided to take no more. My stepfather was
determined that he could fix it and came to fix it to no avail.

“Drive it only when necessary for the next week. We’ll be back to take it away,” instructed the folks.

So I drove the ‘copter one more day and on my way to work it said “NOOOOO!” The ‘Rocket would not be fooled
by some frisky new motor. I should not have participated in this deception.

I’ve never been good with mechanical things, but no other inanimate object has had the power over me as has my
car. When it breaks down, it’s time to call out the exorcist.

My cognitive processes grind to a halt, smoke pours from my ears and nose, and a litany of words and phrases
springs from my mouth not heard since Eddie Murphy did “Raw.” My poor mother has been known to offer me
Valium on these cherished occasions.

Every time my parents say that my car either has or builds character, I roll my eyes in my usual ‘whatever’ kind
of way. Yet, I must finally admit that their words have a deeper meaning. Every flaw in that car holds a special
memory. The drippy paint resulted from a homegrown paint job — a frustrating, yet rewarding do-it-yourselfer,
which was a really bonding experience with my stepfather. A good friend accidentally locked the doors
when we got out of the car one day, resulting in a moment worthy of America’s Funniest Home Videos. My
friend held the trunk open with one hand and pushed my fanny with the other through a 1 ½ by 2 ft opening behind
the backseat.

And now, it has forced me into the transit bus squad. We’ll just see if there is truly life after death. Word is, they
found yet another motor which does not have to have its flywheel adapted in order to fit my car. In the meantime,
my father has agreed to loan me his lovely van. Gnarly. I’ll just pop a few mattresses and surfboards in the back
and holler out the window about going to catch some phat waves.

But hopefully, I will be back in the saddle of my die-hard ride before I graduate in a few months. Keep an eye out
for me, toss up a hand for the 'Rocket should you see it burning up the roads in a flash of red lightnin' this Spring.

Battles Lines

A Favorite Essay from 20 Years Ago - The Red Rocket: Love/Hate Relationship with Car "Builds Character"