Growing up with my
parents there was one thing you could always count on and that they would
always be late. Very Late. So late you could call it by my new name -
punctually retarded. To be waiting only a few minutes for one to show up would
be a cataclysmic phenomenon of epic proportions that would have kittens and
baby seals mating in harmonious fashion producing a world of cuteness that
would be fueled by rainbows and summer daises. But alas this was not my world.
My world then was spent with my eyes grazing over minute and hour hands
wondering if my parents remembered if they even bared children.
Determined to rid
these chains of this oppression, and despite my best efforts at winning the
lottery, I entered the workforce.
Working 2 jobs 7 days a week for minimum wage that summer I had just had
enough to buy my first car, or a round trip plane ticket to Tijuana, just. One
would think that such an individual who's worked so hard for so little
cash, would do some research about the
car he wants to buy. Nay I say. Back then thinking was not my strong suit and
my brain barley had 10% control of my thoughts which it needed to support basic
motor function and any diseases I may encounter in my travels.
So where does one
even begin? Unlike today where a simple stroke of a keyboard you get over a
thousand results of cars for sale or girls looking for a good time in your
area, back then it was spread by word of mouth, the local buy and sell, or
seeing a "for sale" sign on the windshield. Barely able to complete
full sentences when talking to the opposite sex, I decided to ask for my parent’s
advice on the topic. Naturally like all good parents they try to steer you
towards the "safe" domestic cars such as a Dodge, Ford, or GM, you
know, the girl next door - the one who may go to your local church, get
straight A's in class, and who wears Sunday dresses. I do fancy Sunday dresses
on women, but being 18 with hormones and booze making the majority of my
decisions for me, I picked up the first pretty girl that caught my eye, and
took her home that night. A 1984 Mazda RX7. In metallic brown.
There is something
mysterious about Japanese girls, an X-factor, something sexy, some might even
say taboo. Being a small town Canadian teenager their Asian beauty is even more
tempting. One might argue that it’s not hard for one to standout if they are
the only koi fish in the pond. True, but like all men it’s in our genetics to
be attracted to things that bounce, dangerous extracurricular activities, and
flashy/foreign objects. One cannot deny
nor turn away from their petite size, smooth body lines and great rear end that
calls out to you and says "com'on big boy, you know you wanna go for a
ride!" She would be the girl you bring home to meet the parents wearing
nothing but a low cut tank top, a plaid miniskirt, with knee-high stiletto
boots sporting colored sex hair. The type of girl your parents would just love
to hate and the one they would warn you about...trouble. And she was all kinds
of it.
Now a rookie to the
game, and like all first relationships you tend to ignore the early warning
signs, look past their imperfections and quirks, and for a short while enjoy
pure, utter, blissful ignorance.
Sure she has a dent here and a little bit of rust there -
nothing some surgery couldn't fix.
Low Ride height? I like crawling on my hands and knees to
get out, plus the neighbors already think I'm an alcoholic.
Gas gauge doesn't work? No problem. There's always a gas
station nearby and she'll let me know when she is upset with me by not moving.
Engine makes a little noise? Bah, it’s her just whispering
sweet nothings in my ears.
Check oil light always on? She just needs more loving.
Hard to start? She’s just playing hard to get.
Blows a little bit a smoke? She’s just letting off some steam;
I should take her out more often.
Or so I thought.