This past weekend the Coen family, which is about to bump up to four (no, I don’t count the pets like some weirdo), got a new ride. It was great, my wife is taking over the new one, I’m taking over hers, but the downside is I had to get rid of the Malibu. After just shy of 220,600 miles and 9.5 years, my Buchepalus is off to Vahalla.
I did some math, if I drove on average 30 miles per hour, I would have spent over 306 days in that car. I probably ate $5000 worth of Taco Bell and cursed out 745 strangers who drove poorly. Ah, memories. There is something about a vehicle that has pleasant memories associated with it. Even my worst car, when I had a to buy my no-longer-driving Grandpa’s 1993 (I typed 1883 at first and that’s probably almost as accurate) Grand Marquis, still had some good times, like when I hydroplaned in the rain into a guard rail and still drove 3 hours to get to a wedding. Actually that car sucked ass, forget that one.
My Malibu was my first purchased car on my own. I signed a horrible deal because I was working at a place that gave me a very generous car allowance, but I loved it. Suede and leather interior, heated seats (I never used them, I’m always hot), XM radio, and even the basic new car smell (I took care of that quickly, see the Taco Bell reference earlier). That car took me across the US when I started doing comedy on the road. I went to the eastern side of Maryland, southern Georgia, Minnesota, across the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and down to Birmingham, Alabama.
When they appraised it sight unseen, I was told $500 bucks. When I got it and came back, it dropped to $250. Apparently, a broken headlight, door locks not working, multiple accidents (I was plowed into while parked on High Street and rear ended), and the rear defrost being out will do that. When we signed the papers, it hit me that the car was gone. Sure, I could private sell, but with a baby on the way, the thought of meeting strangers to ask to test drive it sounded about as fun as covering myself in honey and jumping into a fire ant colony. They asked for my keys and I had to pull almost a decade’s worth of crap out of it.
I had my college rush guide, a “Certified Bad Ass” card I got when I turned 13 as a gag, a tool kit I never remembered having in there, a broken guitar and busted laptop, an old CD case (I think I left a CD in it, dammit) and comedy headshots that had water stains on them. It was like a homeless person was using my car to hoard trash. Still, it was a bit overwhelming, since giving up that car made me think of my dog Stringbean again and all the memories of road trips past. I like to think someone in need can buy that car for cheap and they get some good miles out of it…or someone buys it and runs over Tom Brady. You know, something useful. I patted the old hoss one last time and then realized I’ll be driving a Jeep Patriot now, so at least I have the most appropriately named car I could get. Unless they come out with the Chevy Grizzled Asshole or the Jeep Surly. Goodbye, old pal, drive straight and true and right into Tom Brady’s knees for your buddy.