The Price of Cool

I drive the least-cool car on the planet. And I'm not talking about one of those so-uncool-it's-kind-of-cool ones, like an ancient Mustang or a beat-up VW Beetle that just exudes irreverance.

I'm not even talking '86 Toyota Cressida cool, like the one that my parents surprised me with on my 16th birthday, the day I got my driver's license and my first diamond (necklace, that is, from my grandfather), the car that symbolized everything fun and free about being a teenager, like cruising along Lake Shore Drive myself on the way to art lessons Sunday mornings, or picking up my friend who lived 45 minutes away in Buffalo Grove (hi Marn) whenever I felt like it -- the car that, on two separate occasions, I let run out of gas to stall in the middle of the road when my friends and I were supposed to be in class but were instead heading to my house to waste the afternoon making pancakes and watching soap operas on the couch.

That car wasn't shiny and new, but man, was it cool.

No. The car I'm driving nowadays is very seriously NOT COOL.
It's not even really mine. It's actually my in-laws' third car that nobody else needs to use on a regular basis, the car from which my brother-in-law has since upgraded to a sleek Accord with a wicked sound system and Y to a G35 with peppy brakes and a cute butt.

What do I cruise around in, you ask? Let me paint you a little picture:
The year is 1996.
The Ford Taurus is all the rage among the yuppy set.
The hottest color? A cross between teal and forest green, with a hint of shimmer.
The dashboard? Teal.
The steering wheel? Teal.
The seatbelts? Teal.
The upholstery? You guessed it. More teal.

The year is now 2006.
The Ford Taurus is all the rage among those hangers-on who bought it ten years ago, and NOBODY ELSE.
The hot color? Nauseating.
Miles? 111,000 and counting.

The car has an unpleasant, sweet-ish smell, like burnt sugar, for which I take absolutely no credit, and it's mysteriously worse in the trunk. The windshield-washing mechanism is broken, so I peer through layers of grime unless I've visited a gas station or car wash in the past week. The door-light is long gone, so it's pitch-black in there at night. There is a sizable dent near the front left tire, for which I do take credit, but which I am unwilling to pay to fix, because the finer points of aesthetics don't mean much anymore. Oh, and the car makes strange screeching sounds when it rains.

This is Los Angeles, the la-la land in which you are defined by what you drive, where your car symbolizes what your handbag does in New York. Growing up in Chicago, I had never even heard of a "Hand Wash"; here, I have yet to find more than one drive-through. Remember "LA Story," where Steve Martin drives to his next-door neighbor's house? Y's family REALLY DOES THAT. On this special planet where your car equals your self-worth, I am currently measuring up as a decade-old, dusty, moldy, creme brulee.

It's become kind of a thrill, really, tooling around the Valley and waiting, just waiting, for the moment when Tory finally gives in to the throes of old age. In fact, I encourage her to retire, to bring me one step closer to the pale-gold Toyota Highlander Hybrid that I secretly covet but could never stomach paying for while Tory is still running. Speed-bump? I speed up. Puddle? I splash through, despite her startled wailing. But NOT ONCE has the car so much as stalled, or refused to start. On the contrary, the thing seems to be in great physiological shape, and is giving no indication that she ever plans to slow down, take some time off.

And you wanna talk gas mileage? Are you kidding? People are outraged about the price of gas. Yet I cannot remember filling up once since at least the beginning of April! Tory is stretching every gallon for me, and while granted, I don't do that much long-distance driving, I do a lot of stop-and-go, and I've come to believe that the only real, possible reason I should have to fill up so rarely is that...this is how my car is cool!! It's got a cool soul. Cool isn't vintage charm, hot looks, treasured symbolism, or a sweet ride, but...a generous heart! An enduring spirit! An arthritic pole-dancer!

A cool soul. Oh yeah, and it's free.