So, when I was in college, my parents decided to get me my first car when I got an internship at a local literary publication. I had only had one job up until that point - cleaning my mom's office when I was in junior high and high school. Other than that, I wasn't encouraged to work a real job. The theory was that I would get used to the money and want to work instead of focus on school. My oldest sister had worked a little in high school, and she had jobs during her undergrad - I don't know if she was encouraged, pressured or discouraged to have these jobs, and how much her having a job influenced me being advised not to work. Maybe in high school they didn't want to drive me around more than they had too?
Anyway, the point is that, my parents never let me drive their cars without one of them being in the car, and all of a sudden, they were buying me a car. I was excited, but this was also a huge responsibility, almost a burden. If I got one scratch on the car, my dad would notice.
When my dad, who shows symptoms of BPD, started looking at cars, he did a lot of research. That's his thing - research. So, my two older sisters had been given Honda Accords, so that is what I expected. My parents gave me a list of cars which included Honda Accord, Nissan Altima, maybe a Toyota, and BMW 318i. So, I told them that I preferred a grey car, or black, and that since they were buying, I would take whatever they preferred - except, I didn't like the shape of the Altima and I didn't want the responsibility of keep up with a BMW. My parents had test driven an Altima and they weren't impressed with it either. They test drove the BMW, and they really liked it. They liked the grey color, the handling, the styling, that's the car they wanted. They thought it was the perfect car.
It was bittersweet to finally get a car, and to get a BMW. My parents drove it up to college on June 1st - my sister's birthday. My sister was visiting, so she got to be present for the handing over of the keys. She didn't seem visibly jealous, but wouldn't she be? Who wouldn't be jealous? I know it wasn't my fault, but I felt guilty. I didn't want this car. Did my dad buy it for me to test me and to purposely make my sisters jealous, I wondered. Or, was that simply the car that my parents liked best, and would they have bought it for themselves if they had needed a car at the time. In fact, why didn't they just give me their old car and take the new one? The excuse was that the old car was pretty old - an 85 Toyota minivan, and that they needed the minivan to move stuff. They were always moving stuff.
So, I had a brand new BMW. I had to be mindful of where I parked, and how close I parked to other cars. I had to get up in the morning and check to see if anyone had stolen it. I cleaned it all the time. About six months after I had the car, I was driving in the airport parking lot, dropping off my best friend. We were chatting and laughing. I had to back up to get into a space, and I hit a big white Lincoln or Chevrolet or Cadillac or something. She had not been there a few seconds before. It made a sickening thud. No one was hurt. I got out of the car. There was a clean circular dent in my bumper. This lady didn't have a scratch. We exchanged information, and when through the procedure. She kept saying that just in case her mechanic found something wrong, she would call me. She had a tank. There was no damage to her car. But I was devastated. It was a horrible day. I cried and cried. I even smoked in the car.
I went home and immediately looked up body repair shops in the yellow pages. I made some calls, and I got a couple estimates. I had a Discover card that I had gotten from one of those awful tables that are set up all over campus. I probably signed up for a Discover card to get a pen or something lame. So, my dilemma was, did I get the car fixed and put it on my Discover card, my parents being none the wiser? But, what if the lady who I hit called my insurance company and my parents found out? I couldn't decide, I didn't even want the stupid car! So, after much thought, I called my mom. I did the "right" thing. She talked to my dad and they decided I would bring the car home when I had a chance so they could see the damage.
So, I took the car home during a break or long weekend. My parents definitely did not want to call the insurance. They said they would pay for it. So in the meantime, they would keep the BMW, and I would take the 85 Toyota Minivan. The one that they needed to transport large items, or a large quantity of small items. So, I drove this big rolling "eggmobile", as my bf called it, back to school. It didn't have the kick that the BMW had, and the ignition was stripped. Eventually, the radio went haywire and would make a loud low buzz that could wake up the whole neighborhood, and I had to disconnect the fuse. But, I didn't have to feel as anal about this car. I wasn't worried where I parked it, as it had lots of little dents and dings. I didn't really wash it too often. It was a ridiculous car to drive, but I wasn't scared of taking it out onto the road.
After undergrad, I moved to Boston for grad school, so I didn't need a car. I gave my parents the eggmobile back. After Boston, I moved to New Orleans, so I needed a car again. This time I got the BMW. The dent was still there. My husband and I drove it for years, yet my dad never turned the title or insurance over to me. Every time my dad saw the car, he would inspect every inch of it. There were lots of flaws. The driver's seat was all worn out from years of my husband sliding in and out of the seat - normal wear and tear. This aberration was the most disturbing to my dad. It made the car look like it was in way worse shape than it was. I was always getting lectures about taking care of the car.
After Katrina, we decided to move to San Diego. My mom was worried about me taking the BMW all the way across the country, but it was the most practical choice. Then, a day or two before we were supposed to leave, I got sideswiped in the intersection of Magazine and Napoleon. The lady driving had not seen the 4 way stop sign. The passenger side was pretty banged up. I got a ticket for having an out of state license and plates. After a couple of weeks of trying to get the lady to report my claim to her insurance company, she finally took care of it. The repairs would be done in New Orleans, then my parents would drive up and pick it up. I would fly to San Diego carless. Before I left, I bought car seats for the front seats. They weren't BMW brand, but they matched the grey interior of the car. They made it look that much better. When my parents picked up the car, they said it looked good. I don't know what they expected, maybe some hint of the accident? But I know that the new seat covers made all the difference. My dad kept saying he would take the car to the BMW shop in Lakeland, and he would make sure it was properly maintained and tuned up.
Sometime a few years later, it started to conk out. Rather than take it to a garage, my parents left it in the backyard, since they only needed one car after retirement. They left it uncovered, under the hot Florida sun. So, when I went to Lakeland after my mom's stroke, I found the car, sad and out of commission, faded paint, interior fabric on the ceiling and sides falling down, in the backyard. My dad said that he thought it just needed to be jumped. Since my sister and I really needed a car, we kept asking my dad if we could jump the car. He kept putting it off, until he couldn't get his other car to start, a 2000 Toyota Previa. So we went to the BMW. There were wasps nesting in the car, and one stung my nephew. It was chaos. The car started, but it would stall after a couple feet of driving. We had to jump it 3 or 4 times to get it out of the driveway. My dad said it just needed gas, so we made it to the gas station down the street, but it conked out right before I made it to the pump.
It started raining. I was going to buy a gas can to put gas in and put it in the car. My dad followed me into the store and yelled at me. He said we would push the car to the pump. He didn't care that it was pouring. So, we pushed it. We put gas in, but it wouldn't start. My dad thought, and thought. Finally, he told me to go to the garage behind the gas station and ask them if they would look at it. So, I ran through the rain to the garage. It was a small garage with only a few guys working there. I told them about the car, and the owner said he would try to start it with a charger, and if not, they would have to push it to the shop. So, he tried the charger and it didn't work. So, three men pushed the car in the rain, the wrong way down the highway on the shoulder to the shop. They replaced the alternator. But the car hadn't been properly maintained all those years, so there were other issues with it, and after a month or so, it stopped working. So, once again, it was banished to my dad's backyard. And all those years, that dent is still in the bumper.
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