Zippy

My car’s name is Zippy.  He’s ten.

Zippy has developed some quirks in his old age:  He’s intensely paranoid, for one thing, and can only be unlocked via remote.  I mean, ONLY the remote.  If you try to unlock him any other way, he will start yelling, and that includes using the key in the door handle.  He’s like the car equivalent of the old lady who used to live down the street from me and kept insisting that every passerby was a Nazi in disguise.

Zippy also has Car Arthritis, so the first few times he has to turn his wheels every day, he makes a high-pitched squealing noise of protest.

Overall, though, Zippy’s a good little old car, and his track record is much better than some of my previous vehicles, though in that respect, I feel that I’ve developed a reputation that’s largely undeserved.  To wit, when I lived out of state, I would have to borrow a car whenever I came to town and attempted to have a social life.  With my brother, that conversation always went like this:

“Andy, can I take your car out to Aurora?  My college friends are getting together.”

“I don’t know, Laura.  My car is a Dodge Stratus.  How many Dodge Stratuses have you owned?”

I would hang my head, because I knew exactly what was coming.  “One.”

“And,” Andy would continue expectantly, “how many Dodge Stratuses have you owned that have also been on fire?”

“…Also one.”

“Well then, the odds don’t seem to be in favor, do they?”

Okay–I know what you’re thinking, but I maintain that that wasn’t my fault.

So, when you work six twelve-hour shifts in a row, and your car is your only means of transport (there was no public transportation to work, and carpooling would have been difficult to set up for a variety of reasons) you kind of have to triage your car trouble.  Like, if the engine falls out entirely into the road with a giant thunk, then yes, you are giving up a day’s pay to get that fixed.

If your car is merely making the occasional odd clicky noise, that can wait until your day off, so that you don’t miss out on that sweet, sweet overtime pay.

If, however, all the devices on your dashboard turn off and then back on again every time you hear a clicky noise, then, as I learned the hard way, THAT IS NOT SOMETHING YOU TRIAGE.

As I sat at a stoplight on my way home from shift number six, smoke started billowing out from under my hood, and I turned off the car, grabbed my purse, and jumped out on the curb to escape what I was sure would shortly be a movie-style inferno.

It never got to that point–the firefighters told me my quick action had saved the engine–but the car definitely had one foot in the grave from that point on.  (I was rescued by my friends who were having dinner nearby.  Thanks, Stan and Stacy.)

Anyway, then I got Zippy, and things have been good since then.  Thing is, much like myself, Zippy is a pretty casual guy.  Just like my natural state is jeans, Skechers, and a Star Wars tee shirt, Zippy’s natural state is that the passenger seat is usually bedecked with gum wrappers, empty shopping bags, at least one change of shoes, and piles of crumpled sheet music.

Zippy’s laid back attitude creates some moments of awkwardness when, for example, I have to have him valet parked, as I did for a family wedding this weekend.  It felt a little weird handing my keys, complete with remote held together by duct tape, to a hotel employee dressed better than I was, and saying, “it’s the little silver one with the missing antenna.  Sorry in advance if it smells like onion rings.”

But then, as we were leaving at the end of the night, Zippy’s other quirks came into play.  Feeling very much like a grown-up for once, I handed my ticket to the valet and waited patiently with a few other wedding guests for our cars to arrive.

A few minutes later, in the distance, we all heard a distinctive sound:

BEEEEEEDOOOOOOOBEEEEEEEEEEDOOOOOOBEEEEEEEDOOOOOOOOOO VOOOOIIIIIIP VOOOOOIIIIIIP VOOOOOOIIIIP OOOWOWOWOWOWOW…

We all looked at each other inquisitively.

“I, um, think that’s mine,” I confessed, imperceptibly shaking my head.  Shoulda used the remote, dude, I thought to myself.

Moments later, we heard another, rapidly approaching sound:  squeeee…squeeee….squeeee….

The others looked at me.

“Yep,” I confirmed.  “Definitely my car.”