bought
my Geo Metro used the last semester of college – the first major
purchase of my life. I had just moved to California. I had no job or
money for a down payment. No California I.D. I didn’t even have an
official residence yet. I was told my A.P.R. would be 25 percent. But, I
bought it. It wasn’t a gift. It wasn’t my parents’. It was mine.
Okay, technically, the car still belongs to the Visa people, but
still.
It’s nothing special. Just a short, black little thing with no power
steering, windows, seats, or locks. The breaks do not anti-lock. It
takes forever to accelerate, and threatens to overheat if I have more
than two passengers. You have to shout to be heard over the engine at
speeds exceeding sixty miles an hour. The side mirrors also rattle out
of position at about that speed. It is a stripped down, no frills,
just-need-something-to-get-around-in kind of car. But I feel about that
Geo the way New Jersey natives feel about their home state: there’s not
much to be proud of, but I love it anyway. Besides, I get forty miles to
the gallon in the city.
Beyond that, it’s just a tough little car. I’ve taken that Geo
places people are afraid to take their pick-up trucks. It’s gone over
the continental divide three times. There’s a dent in the driver’s side
door from a chunk of falling mountain rock. There are pockmarks all over
the shell from hailstones slung by an Oklahoma tornado. I’m sure the
inside still has remnant sand left over from numerous trips into the
desert. And even though it was born in the California sun, it has never
let me down during a Jersey blizzard. That Geo is the Joe Pesci of
automobiles. It’s small, but it’ll kick anybody’s ass.
I became the Master parallel parker with that car. Hollywood
garage rates on an assistant’s salary make one a quick study. The
diminutive size made it easy to squeeze into any space that had a
six-inch buffer. I actually got compliments from complete strangers. And
let me tell you, parallel parking in a car that has no power steering,
gives your arms definition you can’t get from a personal trainer. The
ladies loved it.
Yes, that car was a chick magnet. Okay, maybe not an
electron magnet, but women can tell a lot about a man by the car he
drives. And unlike those guys who drive Mercedes, Cameros and SUV’s, a
man who drives a Geo is obviously not trying to compensate for any
other, ahem… shortcomings.
When I finally moved from L.A. to New Jersey, I managed to transport
everything I owned in that Geo – with enough room left over to stretch
out in my sleeping bag each night. Hey, I was broke and unemployed. I
couldn’t afford the Motel 6. Most people think that sounds pretty
pathetic. I prefer to think of it as something Jack Kerouac would do.
The woman who would eventually become my wife took pictures of my Geo
when we were dating. She told me she loved that little car I’d spent so
much time driving her around in. Now that we’re married, she keeps
encouraging me to get rid of it. I fight her on it, but deep down I know
she’s probably right. With the prospect of a future family, cramming
three kids into the back seat of a Geo Metro would probably be
considered child abuse – especially considering there’s no middle seat
belt.
These days, it takes a little longer for the ignition to catch, the
rattling has become more dramatic and the windows are popping out of
their frames. I find myself wishing for a Ford Explorer. And yet, I know
that when the time finally comes to trade up, it won’t be easy. Some
guys cling to a bachelor pad. I have my Geo. Perhaps I won’t trade it in
at all. Maybe I’ll hang onto it just for the memories.
Or maybe I’ll give it to some kid about twenty-one who just needs
something to get around in. And before I graciously and reluctantly hand
over the keys, I’ll say with a catch in my voice, "Take care of it. It’s
been good to me."
I just hope by then I’ll have finally paid off the Visa bill.
