Friday, August 30, 2002

But it does remind me…

But it does remind me…

I’d been driving the Mazda for seven years; my dad had bought it new and gave it to me when he upgraded and the old civic hatchback he’d made me buy snapped its frame.  So I got the 626 and I really enjoyed driving it, all through LA and up to San Francisco, where it stuck with me through poverty and unemployment, vandalism and dead shows, all manner of abuses and difficulties; I grew fond of the inanimate heap, felt at home on the musty velour seats, made my way through life from behind its windshield.  I got in a few accidents (never at fault of course, teflon seeps from my pores) but the car was always restored just as I liked it. 

Eventually I found myself working in a part of town that was a total cesspit.  Now it’s gone upscale, but five years ago it was a dank alley under an onramp to the Bay Bridge, strewn with litter and reeking of filth.  I parked behind the buildings across the street.  That’s where the car was when it was broken into - again - and the stereo was liberated.  I’d seen it before, many times, and barely cursed under my breath when I found the crystals of safety glass festooning the back seat and the gaping maw where the radio used to be.  AAA was contacted and I arranged for a new stereo to be installed. 

Four days passed; I picked up the car from a shop LITERALLY four blocks from my office.  I parked a bit down the street, in a visible and safe spot,and returned to work, to the narrow confines of the closet that they made into my workspace, assiduously ruining people’s lives under the guise of the pursuit of justice.  I worked for an hour, an hour and a half maybe. I closed up shop and got back to the car, eager to test the new equipment, to play the music I’d brought along for that very purpose, music I loved and longed to hear as I punched the gas and rolled up those nasty hills....

What did I notice first?  The car was wet.  There was a piece of paper stuck to the windshield.  There was a big hole punched in the windshield.  The hood was discolored, charred, warped.  Two tires were flat.  I screamed an obscenity - just a single word that echoed around the tall condo towers overlooking my tragedy.  A few people were sitting on their decks, watching, sipping pastel-colored drinks and toasting my fury with amusement.  The note told me that the SFFD had extinguished my vehicle after it had been reported on fire.  I had it towed back home.

The car was totalled.  The music had melted.  I thought the stereo shop was at fault but I couldn’t afford a forensic electrician to establish proof, and my deductible was only $100.  I got a chunk of chump change and used it to pay taxes.  These taxes were credited to the prior tax year - which I’d fully paid already - and returned to me as a refund.  I confirmed that the money was mine to spend, and then got a new car.  Then the IRS told me I hadn’t paid my taxes for the year I’d tried to pay in the first place, and wanted my money back.  They let me pay it over time because there was no other way they were gonna get squat.  The new car worked okay for a while but eventually died.  When I sold it for 2/3s of the purchase price (exclusive of the thousands I’d spent in repairs and equipment), the guy who bought it told me he thought he was ripping me off.  Three weeks later I got a notice that it had been abandoned in Colma.