Give Me Back My Latch

When my kids were young and just starting school, I drove a completely uncool and ugly van. A 1992 Ford Aerostar to be exact, in dark green, with an equally hideous faux-corduroy tan interior. I don’t know how the idea of faux-corduroy came about, but it wasn’t pretty. And I’m not sure how my van was ever considered a “mini-van” because there was nothing mini about it. I didn’t love that car but it had tons of room inside. It was handy for going on short excursions with much too much stuff, as I tend to do, or for hauling groceries, bikes, and random oversized school projects. The abundance of faux-corduroy seats also allowed me to separate my children, a preemptive strike I learned very quickly. Each child had a place in the vast cabin and bickering was kept to a minimum. The Aerostar also gave me the advantage of feeling tall. From that driver's seat I had a great vantage point. I saw many, many interesting and somewhat entertaining things going on in cars next to me, at stoplights and on the freeway. Very interesting things. Let me tell you, although I suspect it’s already well known: when people think they can’t be seen, they’ll try anything in a car. A-n-y-t-h-i-n-g. It’s a pity I didn’t have my camera on hand to document some of the escapades I witnessed.

The beautiful green Aerostar held over twenty gallons of gas and took forever to fill. Generally I would swipe my card at the pump, and flip the handy little latch into place and let it go until it was full. It was during that filling time that I was able to clean up the spilled Capri Sun or chocolate milk,  check on seatbelts or car seats, or readjust the groceries that had flown all over the car when I peeled into the lot. When everyone was behaving, and the gallons of milk hadn’t busted open because Sir Lazy Courtesy Clerk at Dirty Ralph’s on De La Vina Street didn’t give a rat’s ass how he packed my groceries, I was able to use that time. So what if I was taking a few minutes to mess with my hair or reapply my shimmery lip gloss, or be otherwise overly-concerned with something unimportant but adequately vain. Really-so what? I was working full time and handling a lot, a lot, a lot…oh God, I was handling a lot; and as pathetic as it may sound, those few minutes were mine, and quite possibly the only free minutes I had on any given day. That was my time to organize my thoughts, make a list, or attempt to get my shit together; and trust me, I always need to get my shit together.

Two years ago, with all of my kids in the same high school, I came to the realization that I no longer needed a mini-maxi van. I had since graduated to a lovely 2002 Ford Windstar in Silver Frost, and aptly christened Ms. Sugar. But here I was, the sole occupant of yet another gas-guzzling tank, barreling down the road with six empty seats. Toward the end of Ms. Sugar’s days, I think I was getting about ten miles to a gallon on the freeway. Gas prices had soared and it was costing me over eighty dollars to fill it every week. Besides the expense of the fuel, I noticed that just about every liquid it was supposed to hold was leaking everywhere: oil, water, steering and transmission fluids; even the windshield fluid reservoir in the rear of the van had sprung a leak, and the dripping caused the right brake light to blow, making me a prime target for the underworked fuzz. The final symptom of trouble was a burning smell, accompanied by ominous black smoke. The mechanic? He could find nothing wrong. Really, I asked him, because it looks like the entire floor of your garage is covered in liquids that are pouring out and swirling together on the ground, making beautiful rainbow designs. He was a dumbshit.  He couldn't pinpoint where it was coming from, but was concerned just enough to advise me that one day I might get trapped in a burning vehicle. Wow. What the hell would my children do then?

By late Fall of 2009 I knew it was time to ditch Ms. Sugar. A friend had once told me an unofficial six year rule: used cars should be bought only if less than six years old; and never keep a car longer than six years…or, something like that. If I don’t have the rule wrong, he may very well have been full of crap, but I paid attention and although I was a year late, it was time. Finding a new mechanic and getting the repairs all done was just not going to work for me.  I was pretty confident that the Windstar was a money pit and I didn't want any part of it, so I decided to look for a new car.

I don't drool over cars; to me, they are a necessity and I don't really care what I drive as long as it's not falling apart, although I'd rather never drive an ugly green van again. When Ms. Sugar was dying, I was simply looking for a smaller, affordable car with decent gas mileage. I don’t need all the extras because from my experience, with all of that comes more repairs and that’s what I want to avoid.  I don’t know how I learned it, but I am a ruthless car-shopper. I do my homework and stay with what I can afford. I get pre-approved, walk into a car dealership and don't budge. I don't care about the sticker price or MSRP or whatever it’s called; and I definitely don’t care what the hotshot sales manager hiding in the office down the hall has to say.  BFD buddy--come and tell me yourself! The salesmen are so predictable: show any interest and you’re escorted to a glass-walled cubicle with a bare desk and chairs that belong in a Greyhound bus station. The salesman says his bullshit. I say no, wow, thanks but I really can't, what a shame. He goes to discuss it with his manager. He returns with word from the Messiah. Again, I say no, gee that's too bad but I don't want to waste any more of your time, I just can't afford that...and that’s when I pick up my purse and keys and organize my file folder of pre-approved terms and stand up to leave. And guess what? Suddenly the salesman is back down the hall and returns to tell me that the Messiah has crunched numbers and because he likes me, they’ll take a loss. Well buster, take another loss: I’d also like the car washed and the tank filled before I leave the lot, thank you very much.  Those car people make money on every sale, no matter what great deal they say they are offering you.  And by the time I walk out, the salesman and the Messiah are left scratching their heads and asking each other what the f#$% just happened. Damn, that's a glorious feeling. Call me what you'd like, guys, but I just got what I wanted.

I now drive a black PT Cruiser, which is still very uncool to hip people. Fortuntately for me, it's cool to un-hip people, so it suits me perfectly. I don't have tinted windows or faux wood paneling like a wanna-be gangster. Believe it or not, I passed on the hydraulic crap and oversized speakers. My little car is much like a little black delivery car, or as I prefer to think of it, a hearse. For a car with a small engine, it gets pretty good speed, and great gas mileage. I am not environmentalist enough to have an electric car, and since they don't make a car called the Brilliant Car, the clown-like Smart Car won't cut it for me. It’s just a basic car with a Queen of the Road charm hanging from the rear-view mirror, although I do despise the very idea of royalty. The peace sign on the back is small and barely noticeable... but I bet Governor Bobby Jindal noticed my peace sign last Fall on the 101 as I stuck my arm out the window and gave him the finger. Peace Bobby, now go home. The man who changed my oil at the car place over the weekend liked my car; he was quite handsome too, although it's hard to get past the greasy black fingernails.

Frankly, I really don't care about cars as long as I can get from point A to point B and not have to worry about the engine dropping out of it. But I do care about life's little conveniences, or inconveniences. Which leads me to the original reason for even discussing my cars: remember my few minutes of time at the gas station when the little latch was holding the pump in the ON position and I could wipe the snotty nose of a child or do my hair?  My cherished moments have been taken away. Back in October 2010 and in the name of public safety, the Acting State Fire Marshal, Tonya Hoover , ordered all latches manufactured by VST to be repaired, replaced or removed. All this based on thirteen reported cases of spraying and/or spilling of gasoline. Due to the cost involved, many gas stations have opted to leave the pumps latch-less. Since I am held captive pumping gas now, I have examined the nozzles and of interest to me: since the latches have been removed, I have found that the pumps do not always stop even after releasing…often, there is spillage or spray. Without the latches, Tonya. I get the whole fire hazard thing and I'm sure it stings, at least a little, to have gas sprayed in your eyes. But selfishly I want those latches put back on the gas pumps immediately. Yesterday as I got gas I was bored out of my freakin' mind, standing there holding onto the pump, not a handsome man in sight to help. Not only have gas prices gone up again, but there are no friendly young attendants to pump the gas for us anymore. I stood there wondering what I could wedge into the handle to replace the latch--a lipstick...or even better? Remember the old cell phone with the duct tape holding it together? If I slide that sideways, I think it might be the perfect fit...the gas will pump while I tend to more important issues, like cleaning out my purse or fixing a broken fingernail. And if the cell phone doesn't work,I always have duct tape.

   

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