Metal Glove

It was a humid hazy August and I was on the hunt. I had roamed a good 50 miles in radius around these rural backroads, their quaint suburbs, and sprawling nearby gray cities. I had 12 hundred dollars, a modest amount without question for the year 2000. I knew the kind of car I was aiming to trap, and it would have to be an old one. But it would be a good one, so help me God.

I would track it down.

I knew in the depths of my blackened heart that a car is not a car. It is an extension of the creative conscious. As men instinctually know (whether it is auto, bike, board, or bare feet) the vehicle is a rite of passage, a testament of where you will, or perhaps more importantly, will not go. A series of events, not a stationary wagon.

I had been sweeping the private market. Those in the know are also aware that folks often tend to underappreciate the things they kick to the curb. Especially cars. I would land a creme puff. I had some near catches, but things fell through. I was patient. Time for such game must be allotted, as seemingly indefinite. You wait. Watch. Then seize the prey.

It came to pass that on one such expedition, exhausted and defeated, I made a wrong turn. In East Rutherford. It was a right turn. I recall vividly how it swooped down and around in semi-circle, off the highway, and at the bottom, obscured partly by a stand of trees was a dingy used car lot. I parked my borrowed Civic and ventured out. All causal, because you don't want to tip off opponents as to what has caught the eye. It certainly had.

It was perfect, a five-door; small, sleek, like a blue coat Whippet. The steely grey blue had a sparkling speckle to it that shone when I waxed it later. But here it lay camouflaged under a cover of dust.

I feigned great interest in the Ford next to it, all the while checking out the side body, the interior, etc of my prize. The salesman was convinced and eager. He gave me a good price on the 1990 Ford, that I couldn't afford, but I pretend to haggle, then asked, "What about this Toyota?" He made some disparaging remark to bring me back to focus and named the right price.  

I wasn't even sure what it was. I'd never seen a Tercel. I'd take it for a test drive. Soundless. I was already sold. Bonus it had only 74,000 miles on it, and just one owner, a little old lady. After taxes, registration, etc., I had just enough to cover.

Suddenly, the guy didn't have the title. I had signed on the line and paid! It checked my resolve. I was sure.

He said he'd have it. "Have faith." We shook hands. I prayed. I picked up the car the next day, nearly not able to find the place, having to retrace my accidental steps. I christened it Toto.

Still no title. He said he'll mail it. I waited, and prayed. It came, after an agonizing week of waiting.

I've written about it previously. This is the car in which I had my "conversations" with Jesus. Keeping me on the path of self-discipline. God I loved that car. It commuted me back and forth from work and University, an hour and fifteen minutes each way, five days a week for 3+ years.

It had a funny thing built in sounding like a distant police siren approaching anytime you drove over 55mph... I imagined the old lady was dotty and had it installed by family to keep her (and me) from speeding. A blessing, because on those seemingly deserted roads cops were lurking in random speed traps, and I was always late and in a hurry.

The 1986/87 Tercel is a strange carburetor design that was quickly abandoned. When it finally gave out, nobody was willing to fix it, not for any price. And I was willing to pay to resuscitate that loyal little hatchback. Its spaceship shell had fitted me like a glove. The console was even turned towards the driver, with care, and a double drink holder pulled out and unfolded beneath the terrific stereo with cassette player. Best of all it had an Analog clock. Its own beating heart.

That car was 100% mine. No one rode in that car except me, and Jesus.

08.08.2023

Car of Your Life challenge @Mavia