I love my old truck. God bless a country that can make a truck that can go for just about ever. By the same token there is a curse for the country who made my old Datsun. Now to be fair, I loved my old Pulsar. Back in 1983 when I first got that little black beauty I thought I was the cat's pajamas (don't ask, but in case you do - I do know what cat's pajamas look like). Those little pop up headlights, and purring little engine that put out 70 horsepower was a hoot to drive. Heck even after the the thing started to smoke, and the lights stopped popping up consistently - the little thing kept on motoring. Just about 600,000 kilometers on it too - then fate that most cruel of mistresses reared her ugly head and put a final stake through the heart of my daytime Datsun (yes I know its a Nissan, but I got it just around the time of the name change and the decal on the trunk says DATSUN so cut me a break, I'm in lament mode here).
Now it isn't like I hate change. I love change. I buy my coffee from Cindi most of the time with change. However in life I kind of like things the way they are. Which explains why I still have the Fargo despite Jimmy's attempts to take it off my hands. Speaking of the devil, it was Jimmy who pronounced the car dead. Which for him must have been hard, because he's been milking me dry over that car for the last 15 years. I think it was the letter from the police that convinced him that it's timing belt was up (oh look, I made a car funny).
I'm losing you aren't I? That's the problem with letting your fingers type while your brain is trying to organize what's supposed to come out. I don't type that fast, but apparently I type faster than I can think. Please don't tell Margaret. I'd never hear the end of it.
Now where was I? Right - the car.
Is there a point to this? Sure there is, and I'm working my way to it as sure as a rat eventually finds the cheese at the end of the maze. You just have to bear (I'm not changing animals, I'm sticking with the rat thing) with me while I bump into some dead ends along the way.
I think I mentioned my car smoked. It didn't just smoke a little it smoked a lot. I mean people who drove behind me put on their lights, in the day, it was that smokey. It would settle down after a couple of miles to just chimney smoke type smoking, but when I first fired up the car (a pun, but not intended) it was pretty unbelievable. Over the years Jimmy suggested a head gasket job, which I passed on. Then a ring job, which I passed on. He actually had a motor for it, but I passed on that - then reconsidered, but the motor was gone. His nephew had taken it and put it in a go kart. So I did the next best thing - Jimmy had me use the thickest oil, and every month did an oil change and put in a bunch of stuff intended to reduce the amount of oil the car burned through ... I wonder how bad it would have been if Jimmy hadn't done all that stuff?
Anyways, to cut a long story somewhat shorter last week I was going to drive over to see Vernon about some stuff. I had hardly pulled away from the house when I heard the siren. I looked in the rear view mirror but couldn't see anything - literally. It got louder so I pulled over to the right, and the siren sort of followed me. Now in my heart of hearts I'd been expecting this for a long long time, but always figured it was a problem for the future John, not the now John or as Margaret says when I'm feeling frisky "Not now John". I stopped and as the smoke dissipated could see the tell tale blue and red flashing lights. I could also see a rather large officer of the law walking toward the car.
He tapped on my window. He had a sheaf of paper in his hand. "Is your car on fire?"
"No officer." I replied.
"Your car isn't on fire?" he repeated and turn the paper over in his hand and looked at it, and then at the back of the car, and then at me.
"Um, no - not on fire" and then I quickly added "Sir." I could sense the jig was up, and more to the point I caught a glimpse of a beaming Mrs. McCleary in the mirror as she stood at the end of her driveway. "My car smokes a little when I first fire it up." In my mind I knew that totally came out wrong.
"Sir, you can no longer drive this vehicle." He handed me the notice which had obviously been prepared in advance basically summarizing what he'd just said.
I took the paper, and went to start the car to drive home. But the nice policeman was still standing there. "Perhaps I wasn't clear. You ... cannot ... drive ... this ... car."
Mrs. McCleary had actually made her way down the sidewalk, and was close enough to be able to hear what was going on. I looked over and made a face I hoped was menacing. Sadly the cop thought it was for him, and before I knew what was going on I was outside the car with my legs spread and my head on the hood.
All in all it was a pretty shitty way to say goodbye to my car. I pushed the car home, and as I was just about to the top of the driveway Norton popped his head out the front door, "Hey John, need a hand?"
Next I'll tell you about my new car. But not now, you could say that the memory is too fresh and I'm fuming just thinking about it.
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