Please Take the T-Bird Away

There has been one consistent focus of my attention since arriving here in sunny Santa Cruz: this sleek, sporty 2000 XTerra.

24 mpg highway, rear-wheel drive, 143 hp. The toughest car on the road. They would award this monstrous car beast to winners of Survivor in the early seasons because the competitors had fought their way through Hell and deserved a prize fit for a winner. And oh, what a prize it was.

Maybe 15 fucking years ago.

I was given my version of this sleek, sporty piece of banged-up shit when I arrived. Of course of, of course I was thankful to have a car that I could call my own and of course I am not picky when given anything that will make my life easier. A car that gets me from A to B, no matter how beat up or out-of-date or driven-predominantly-in-Hialeah is more than fine by me. More than fine by me. Do not be mistaken.

This car, however, had recently had some “important wires” gnawed to oblivion by
rats, so my uncle – insisting that it wouldn’t be monetarily worth a full rewiring – had the mechanic “just kinda tie some of the wires back together.”

This thing was a death trap.

Without any other options (other than my uncle’s three other cars), I decided to suck it up and drive Evel Keneval’s Wet Dream to and from work and other places in the area.

One night, I came to a red light and hit the brakes with a power of maybe four out of a possible ten. Like, the light-changed-to-yellow-but-I-still-had-about-30-feet-so-the-choice-was-obvious-but-almost-too-close-to-tell power. To my horror, the brakes hopped my murder mobile straight into the middle of the intersection. I reversed as soon as I could, narrowly avoiding death and peeing a little for emphasis.

I had to get this car checked out.

The next day I approached my uncle.

ME

“Uncle (not what I call him), – explain what had happened the night before – can we please get the brakes checked out?”

Uncle

“Oh, Lukie. That car is so old I probably would’ve junked it if you weren’t here. I’m not putting any more money into it.”

Well, my life is worth at least twice the sum it would cost to fix the brakes, but who’s to say how my uncle should spend his money other than the state prosecuting attorney following my death?

A similar thing happened later that week, so I decided it was time to take the car in myself. The mechanic at Wheel Works explained that safe, functioning brakes are at 8 millimeters and that my breaks we’re at a very unhealthy 2 millimeters and were bound to give way at any moment.

I decided not to even ask about the wires.

Upon reporting this to my uncle, he conceded and allowed me to drive his Mercedes (score) if I changed the oil. I did so, and that lasted for about seven hours before my uncle changed his mind and said he’d pay to have the brakes replaced on the Xterra.

I was very pleased. Partly because I got my way, and party because now that I had to drive the XTerra, I wouldn’t have to hold my breath and run through my last moments every time I got within three feet of another car.

But mostly because I got my way.

Fast-forward to one week later. I’m driving down Highway 17 toward Henry Cowell Redwoods State Park (an adventure in-and-of itself) and I am having the time of my life. In fact, here is a transcription of what exactly I demanded that Siri record (with some additions to ensure that it makes logical sense from my brain to your eyes) as I was careening toward my day-hike:

           

“I'm driving down Highway 17 and the roads are winding it's so beautiful [and] the brush [on the side of the road] is so thick. I just cut off a cool car [and the driver] seems really angry but I'm so satisfied because I'm in a shitty 2000 XTerra and I'm just really really happy with these beautiful beautiful hills covered with thick brush.”

I then followed that inspirational moment with another thought:

“I've never been on winding roads like this it's like a roller coaster [but] I'm in control so the fear for my life is real.”

It was at about that point that I noticed my exit. Too late, however, did I notice that said exit curved off into a small-diametered circular ramp, one that did not seem like it would accommodate a 2000 XTerra with wires that were “just kinda tied back together.” I hit the brakes – maybe closer to a six out of ten this time – and promptly skidded into some rubber pylons used to mark the exit. I sat there, stunned and inhaling the stench of burnt rubber as the “beautiful beautiful hills covered with thick brush” remained miles behind me. It was just me, the road, and my 2000 XTerra.

But of course, of course I would be thrilled to have a car that would get me safely from A to B.

[He’ll] have fun fun fun til [his uncle] takes the T-Bird away,

Luke