I feel like it's time to introduce you folks to Harold. Harold, for those of you who are wondering, is my old man crush, my partner in crime, and my temperamental 2000 Buick LeSabre. Now, for those of you to whom the make and model of a car means about as much to as the breed of a cat, here's a little visual aid:
Although he's a spry old man, he's starting to feel the effects of old age, especially in the last few years. I think he went through some sort of mid-life crisis a while back where he would roll down the driver window at will, usually at the most inopportune times for me. Just like any other elderly person, his parts are beginning to sag a little bit, and I have to periodically pump up all his wheels. He also does this thing where, if I neglect to keep the gas above an acceptable level, he gets revenge by swinging the gauge all over the place and right when I'm having an ecstatic, happy-go-lucky cruise down the highway on a full tank, he drops it below critical mass. You know, that level where finding a gas station has become a matter of life and death.
I guess he's become a bit anal about cleanliness too because he cleans his tape (no, not CD, cassette tape) player countless times a day. I'm sure he must be concerned about how dirty it's getting because of how often I use it...
Anyway, this causes whatever music is playing to stop momentarily while a soft whirring sound lets you know he's in one of his moods again. Which is fine, patience is a virtue, but that little brat always decides to go all Mr. Clean on me right when I'm high rollin, windows down, music up, singing at the top of my lungs, RIGHT at the best part of the song.
Sassy old fart!
Despite all our moments, our relationship is still quite an affectionate one at its core. His most famous antic is when he shows me how happy he is to see me...although interpretations of this antic have bordered inappropriate, he has this habit of...popping his trunk whenever I hit the unlock button, open the driver's door or..."turn him on".
I mean, I could be construing this all the wrong way though. He could just be flipping me off.
Anyways, poor guy is still suffering from saggy parts syndrome. Yesterday his rear window fell down permanently, just in time for my fall break. I couldn't just leave him alone like that in public so I brought him home with me and we had a magical drive back with the warm, fresh autumn air blowing in through the back window.
Commence October 4, 2012, the day of Harold's doctor appointment. The weather forecast called for a 30 degree drop in temperature overnight with a slight chance of rain and winds up to 35 mph. Lucky for me, I like to stay uninformed and I failed to check the forecast. Not that it would have mattered, I still had to get my sleep-deprived rear out of bed at an hour much earlier than I had planned for fall break so I could take Harold in to get fixed.
Driving into town, I wasn't fully conscious...usually I just let H do his thing and we get there fine. We arrive in town and the auto repair shop is NOWHERE TO BE FOUND. I'm like, "awwww fricken A, I leave for like a month and they change EVERYTHING!"
....
No, actually I was in the wrong city.
For some reason all sense of spatial relationships just went kaput and I didn't even know how to correct my mistake. It took me a while to even figure out where I was, let alone remember what town the auto shop was actually located in and figure out how to get from point A to point B.
So I turn around to get on the freeway. I have to make my way back to Carlton, which is south of where I was at the time. I'm currently three minutes late, but since it only takes 5 minutes to get to my destination from where I am, we're golden. Fashionably late. Not a problem.
I'm trying to think of a clever way to make an excuse for getting on the freeway going north instead of south, but it was clearly just stupidity. Now we're going 70 mph and bone-chilling gusts are coming through my back open window, keeping me just cold enough to be uncomfortable.
I get off at the next exit hoping to make an inconspicuous little turn-around, pretend like that never happened. Construction. No entry ramp. 10 minutes late. More bone-chilling gusts and freezing rain. Harold starts cleaning in the middle of my favorite song, again. Dad calls and I tell him I'll be there in five minutes, the world's biggest white lie. But I drove a circle with like a 10 mile radius in under 15 minutes, I'm shocked at my own abilities.
So that's Harold. It's weird that I'm blurring the line between automobile and human.
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