well, a lot of good cars are japanese

My car, or rather, my parents' car, which is actually still technically my grandmother's car, though she now drives a Saturn, is a 1982 Toyota Corolla. It's light blue. Some members of my family call it "Bluey", you know, because it's blue. Others refer to the car as "The Toad", since it used to belong to my grandparents and seems like a vehicle best suited for the elderly. My sister Kelly calls the car "Shakes", because at speeds exceeding and occasionally even just approaching 70 MPH, the car shakes like it's got the DTs. The driver's side window doesn't seal completely, creating a whooshing wind effect near the driver's left ear at freeway speeds. Both the steering wheel and the passenger's front seat are covered in zebra-print fabric, and there is a small red stuffed ladybug called the "Love Bug" glued to the dashboard. In short, the car is a fucking pussy magnet.

That being said, Shakes gave me little trouble, aside from periodic difficulties in starting the car, until November. It uses little gas, and has a functional AM/FM radio. There's a tape of Jesus Jones' Doubt (featuring "Right Here, Right Now" and "Welcome Back Victoria") in the glove box, and at least two sets of jumper cables in the trunk. Until recently, the backseat was full of swim team-related paperwork, but I had made a valiant clean-up effort just before Shakes began to give up the automotive ghost.

At first we thought it was the battery. Then, an alternator problem. The mechanic confirmed that the alternator was faulty, but also discovered a leak in the fuel pump, and the need to replace the shocks and struts. It seemed like an expensive repair but my parents wanted to do it, wanted me to have a car, didn't mind the expense for such a reliable car. It came back from the mechanic, and promptly blew a tire on its first journey on the road. I began driving the minivan.

Keane family automobiles are cursed. And maintained poorly, but also cursed. Maybe one of my ancestors cheated a Gypsy mechanic out of a covered wagon repair bill a hundred years ago, and that is why we have such hardships. Why else would my parents opt for a sunroof on their first van, instead of air conditioning, forcing in summer months the choice between stifling heat or miniature tornadoes whipping in through the wide-open roof? What other families' automobiles fall into such disrepair that they cannot be resold, only donated to the Jewish Community Fund for the Blind? What other vehicles are ever randomly found coated in Magic Shell-brand sundae topping? Who else has trouble with mold - mold! - on seats and upholstery?

The car I have been driving since last Tuesday is our Acura Integra. It has a small leak in the back windshield, floor mat mold issues, and, unbeknownst to me on Tuesday, a faulty latch on the hood. Only the temporary latch keeps the hood from flying up backwards and slamming into the windshield, while you're driving to work on Highway 24 happily singing along to your Cake CD, totally unaware of any hood problems that might any moment cause the deaths of you and any other motorists unlucky enough to be driving near your out-of-control, shattered-windshield, moldy Integra death machine, while somewhere in Gypsy heaven, a wagon mechanic cackles.

Dennis told me about the latch issues on Wednesday afternoon, after I'd done far too much freeway driving the day before. But no matter. I had survived, and would soon return the Acura back home to Pleasant Hill, this time taking surface streets. I'd drive through Tilden Park, hit Wildcat Canyon, then hook up with Alhambra Valley Road. It would take fucking forever, but I would almost definitely not die to hood-induced vehicular trauma.

I started to worry on Bear Creek Road. I was going 40 - was 40 too fast? The potholes and general disrepair of the road also made me nervous. And the signs warning me about deer crossing the road. Would the hood fly up, and cause me to smack into a deer? Maybe I'd hit the deer, but the hood would fly up at just the right angle to catapult the deer over my car and clear of danger. I could be reliving any of a number of scenes from "Tommy Boy", particularly if the Carpenters happened to come on the radio.

Thankfully, I returned home safely, and will be reuniting with Shakes very soon. It may have been healthy for us to spend some time apart. I'll appreciate it more; a car radio with my own pre-set stations, the beautiful non-scent of a mold-free backseat, and, soon, a matching zebra-print cover for the driver's seat. Shakes, I missed you, baby. Let's never let our relationship, or our alternators, fall apart again.