Nissan
I bought a new Nissan back in March. Well, it’s an old Nissan, but it’s new to me. I didn’t want to buy a car – and had been free of one for almost 16 months – but I moved farther out into the suburbs, because it was cheaper, which meant that I had to get a car, which made it so that it wasn’t cheaper to live farther out, so the moral of the story is that I should just live in DC and get rid of my car.
But it’s bad form to start with the moral, so I’ll talk about the Nissan instead. I bought it from a friend, and there were three things wrong with it. Two obvious things, and one secret thing.
The two obvious things didn’t really bother me back in March. My friend told me the problems, and I pretty much said, yeah, yeah, just give me the fucking keys so I can go home and watch Doctor Who and God today sucked and I hate the sun and Mankind is my enemy.
The first problem is that the rear speakers aren’t hooked up. Which is fine because, in 1997, I went to a Red Hot Chili Peppers concert at the 9:30 club (with the same friend) and stood next to the speaker the whole time because that was cool. So now I can’t hear anything if there’s background noise. Which really sucks when you take a date to a bar or restaurant. What? You want my what in your what? You want…what? You’re very corny? Nevermind! Try the house salad!
I suck at dates anyway, so the added hearing loss makes them even more amusing for third party observers. I actually suck at any interaction involving women. I blame their tits. And hair. And eyes. And…well, I could go on. But we’re here to talk about my Nissan.
The speakers: Not a problem. Whatever. I just turn the radio up really loud. All I ever listen to is the oldies station anyway. So, okay, 1993. Same friend. Yellow Pinto far beyond the expected shelf life, and with a radio that was stuck not only at top volume but on an AM Spanish channel that was always playing weird mariachi music. I was packed in there with said friend, and a gigantic black guy, and an Arab who had these shiny fake four foot long dreads. It’s Saturday night in always overcrowded Georgetown, and the car stalls right in the middle of a major intersection. Oncoming traffic is freaking out and honking at us, crowds of people are using the opportunity to cross everywhere, and there we are packed in like sardines with that mariachi music playing at full blast, the car belching smoke as my friend tries to get it started again. Looking back, as I write this, I realize that this friend, and all my car-related lore, are intimately entwined.
The second problem was that the air bag light is constantly flashing. It was disconcerting then, but I figured I’d get used to it. My friend told me that he took it to the repair people and they said it would be a $500 job to fix it, and it didn’t mean anything anyway, so he had been ignoring it for the past 10 years. My first question – and this is more directed towards Nissan and/or the ether – why have a light that serves no purpose, except to eventually break for $500 a pop? Ah, well, maybe that question answers itself…
I had some spare time the other day and, instead of just drinking at 8am and watching Doctor Who, I decided to have different repair people look at the light. After six months, I’ve grown tired of the alarming light flashing shenanigans. Sure enough, the repair people said blah blah, something or other, so and so, and it’ll be a few hundred bucks. But it doesn’t mean anything and it’s not worth repairing, except for my own peace of mind.
Instead of engaging in a conversation along the lines of, you know, what the fuck, I was intimidated, as I often am by professional repair people, and I nodded and said, “Oh yes, of course! I see, I see!”
My current plan is to just wait until the light burns out. Which it hasn’t after 10 years of being broken… But I figure it’ll be any day now. I only drive about six miles a week, if that, but I find myself thinking that, this time, after sitting under the shitbird tree outside my apartment for six days, it’s going to be burned out and I’ll be free. I suppose I’ll be thinking that 10 years from now.
The third, secret problem was that the battery hadn’t been changed since 1995. The tow truck driver scolded me and said that I should change my battery every three to five years and, narrowly avoiding asking “what battery?”, I told him that I just bought the car. He said I got ripped off. “Who would buy a car with a 15 year old battery? Ha ha ha!” and so on. I think he hated white people. I think lots of people hate white people. Which I don’t understand… My family was far too poor to own slaves. Well, the Confederate branch was. The Union side of my family had the money to own slaves but, instead, they were really busy cheating Irish and Italian workers. Because if there’s one thing real white people hate, it’s the Irish and the Italians. Once this whole fluff with the blacks is forgotten, we’ll get back to screwing over those motherfucking Papist pigs.