On the Brattish Nature of My Car

Yes, it's true, Maybellene and I are no more. The cost of maintaining such an impractical automobile for someone my age and professional status was just to difficult. Though I will probably won't have such a chimerical car for quite some time again, it was fun for the year or so, but I needed practical. Options were slim, and they were made even more limited by the fact that the car had to be something I could afford a monthly payment for, as well as monthly gas. So really, I wasn't choosing the car; rather, this was a case in which the car really chose me: a 2010 Ford Focus S.

Maybellene's sleek black body styling is traded for a spoiled-rotten, candy red. The melodious stereo system has been traded for an unbalanced racket. The painless, "hands-off", automatic-manual gear box has been replaced with the excruciating, "hands-pulling-out-hair", manual gear box. The saucy red leather interior has been swapped for a grumpy grey, poly-fiber blend. At first glance, you'd think this car was a monumental letdown, but practical is as practical does and a man's gotta grow up sometime...

But as soon as I got into the car, I seriously doubted that I was heading in that direction. Reaching into the box of Maybellene's former belongings, I pulled out a few choice CDs that might console me on my grave loss. To my surprise, none of them were fitting into the slot. A CD had been left in the car by the previous owner. I tried to eject it to see what it was, but the CD would not come forth at my command. After taking out an initial moment of intense frustration on the steering wheel, I was struck by an immense stroke of genius: no greater opportunity than this could be afforded to learn about the car's previous owner. Immediately, my momentary rage melted into the most engaged curiosity and I played the CD.

What met my ears was the most heinous collection of party rock I'd ever heard, with songs by "artists" such as Ludacris and Ke$ha (and judging by the sound quality, it was likely pirated). Furthermore, they weren't even the songs you heard on the radio; all of them were mediocre, B-side quality. Indeed, this was a juicy find, and my mind began to notice other telling personality traits.

The previous owner (rather, the owner's parents) had installed an "M-Key" device offered by Ford which prevents the driver from doing certain things with the car that some might consider dangerous. The device limits how high the radio's volume can be set. Also, this functionality will turn off any audio in the car if the driver fails to buckle his seat belt. But to top it off, the device will warn you with a noise if the car approaches 75 mph and will automatically apply the brakes to keep the driver from going anything over 80 mph.

Upon an initial overview of the car, I noticed that there was a floor pad missing from the driver's side of the car. Now, I'm not one to speculate too far into things, but I would certainly like an explanation as to why a floor pad, specifically made for this car model is missing. All the others are present, but I find it very intriguing that the the one missing is the driver's.

After mentioning these findings to the respectable salesman who sold me the car and offering my speculative conclusions, he told me that the car's previous bumper stickers would most certainly support my suspicions. Before the car came into my possession, there had been bumper stickers for the University of Missouri - St. Louis, a commuter college, and a "rainbow" awareness ribbon.

With these facts in hand, I was now able to make some claims regarding the previous owner of the car. The first, and most obvious fact, was that the previous owner had been a girl, most likely a student of the commuter college to which the bumper sticker denoted. The car was purchased new by her parents, as  indicated by the activated M-Key functionality. Certainly, she was an irresponsible child and not trusted at all by her parents, and it is very likely that in her fecklessness, she had totalled her previous car, hence the new car with the overkill M-Key security features. Also, it's possible that the manual transmission was selected by the parent's to discourage texting-and-driving, a well-known practice among girls.

The awareness bumper sticker leaves no mystery as to the secular leanings of the girl's worldview and the forever-stuck CD reinforces this worldly hypothesis. The CDs song selection also makes some interesting suggestions. The first song on the CD was by St. Louis-native, Nelly, and is titled "Hey Porsche". A link to the lyrics can be found here, as they are too vile to post on this respectable blog. Also, the fact that the songs are less popular than the big hits of these mainstream artists suggests that she might have a hipster streak about her. However, after careful consideration, I concluded that a hipster girl would never listen to mainstream artists at all, so it is most probable that the previous owner just had terrible taste in music.

The only missing piece to explain now is the missing driver's side floor mat. Relying on the conclusions we've already made, it seems logical that while driving home after a long night of partying at her girlfriends' house, the owner vomited on the floor at a stop light to relieve her stomach of the gratuitous quantities of McCormick's vodka and Jack Daniel's whiskey. Unable to clean it without her parent's noticing, she threw the mat into a nearby dumpster and Fe-breezed the car, effectively eliminating the odor and the mess.

Therefore, the previous owner of the car was surely an upper middle-class, blonde, spoiled, sorority brat with the most terrible taste in music and a high number of supremely bad life-choices. It is for this reason, that I have named the car, Brittany. These deductions make me realize the subtly colorful character of an otherwise typically practical car, and though she's not the fiery temptress that Maybellene was, she's definitely got spunk: and I like her spunk.

Maybellene: A Young Man's Car

This post is a portion of a larger untitled work in progress and a continuation of the previously published post, My First Car ...

Having driven my car for nearly nine months now, I can honestly and realistically notice those personality traits that make her special. I say ‘her’ because all cars driven by young men must be feminine, and her name is Maybellene. It had taken me nine months to arrive at this name, but it was well worth the wait. Unique and memorable, I named her after the Chuck Berry song of the same title, which in turn acquired its name from the popular cosmetic brand. It was Berry’s first rock and roll hit and was influential in developing the genre.

Just as the song lyrics suggest however, there are a few problems with Maybellene. Although her exterior is sleek and her upholstery is sexy red leather, the rest of the interior is made of plastic. Well, one has to cut costs somewhere, but the areas of primary concern are the door handles, both inside and outside. Without a doubt, they will see the most wear and tear of the entire car, so it would only have been fitting if they were made of a more durable material. And in the frozen winter, between the ice forming on the outside handles and the increased brittleness, one must be very gentle.

Maybellene’s sunroof is also a constant source of her infidelity. The mechanism works well enough, but it is the shutter on the inside of the car that fails to operate properly. It is made from two separate pieces of board, one sliding over the other when opened. However, Hyundai somehow made this design very unreliable as the two pieces frequently came apart and jammed the whole mechanism. Thus, the sunroof has not seen as much use as I would like.

Another cosmetic issue with poor Maybellene is a circular piece of plastic that has come apart in her headlight. Originally, the ornamental ring was fixed around the low beam headlight, but it had never been fully fixed to the bezel since I got her. In an attempt to correct this, the entire piece came loose and began to roll freely within the epoxy sealed headlight. After hours of fruitless attempts to return the piece to its original place without breaking the moisture-proof epoxy seal between the lens and the bezel, I only succeeded in scratching the plastic ring and the bezel with a rusty coat hanger. 

Of comparable sports cars, Maybellene has the sportiest form I have ever seen by far. However, sportiness makes the driver sacrifice ride comfort. The suspension of the car feels pretty shoddy, though I am not sure what else I would expect from a sports car built for high-responsiveness, grip, and performance. A lot of the times, the ride does not bother me significantly, but from time to time, roads have not been properly made. Rough roads always cause me significant worry about what kind of damage is being done to my poor Maybellene.

Finally, there is the sad fact that Maybellene only has a four-speed gear box. One arrives at 45 mph and jumping into 4th gear, that’s all she has for you. You’re up at 3000 rpm, then 3500 rpm, then 4000 rpm, and there’s just no next gear. This is probably for the best, though. I’m pretty sure I’d have more than two speeding tickets if I had been given even one more gear to tempt me.

"Maybellene" on the day I got her

These foibles make Maybellene a real car, though; for no car is without her faults. It gives the machine a personality and a temperament, but despite these shortcomings, the most influential factors on the car’s persona are those that make you fall in love again, just like the day you got it.

I suppose I cannot say enough about the leather interior. It gives Maybellene that sultry debonairness that is tailor fit for young men. The “black widow” red-black color scheme assures you that if Maybellene is going to be the one to kill you, she’s going to do it with both visually-pleasing and sensational fashion in a James Dean-esque ball of fire, and the red leather interior plus bucket seats has much to do with that embracing experience.

Something else that is evident about Maybellene is that she’s not a mother or a nanny: she’s just a girl. She warns you that your seat belt might be off, but she is not incessant about the reminder, just a couple chimes of sweet concern for a few seconds. She knows you’re an independent man and she cannot tell you to do something when you don’t want to do it. She’s just not the nagging type.

Though I mentioned Maybellene’s limited four-speed gear box earlier as a regrettable idiosyncrasy of hers, I must also mention that it is a “select-shift” four-speed gear box, which makes all the difference. Sometimes, a man like me wants to be in complete control, but I’d rather not get embroiled in the minor details. Take operating a clutch, for instance: it is a detail about manual transmission automobiles that I have never handled with any amount of grace or success because I do not care to give it that much attention. With the select-shift mode, I let Maybellene handle those little details, and I just concern myself with shifting down on the tight corner, hunkering down to zip right into the ensuing straight-away.

It is often said that a young man’s first car is his first step to independence and freedom; that with this car, he was proceeding from boyhood to manhood. Therefore, it was important to choose this first car wisely, despite frequently constraining financial means, because this car was going to mean something sentimental to the driver, no matter how appalling or flawed. Maybellene, though, has proven a true companion, one with whom my adrenaline-fueled, thrill-seeking, speed-craving young life will be better spent. 

My First Car

This post is a portion of a larger untitled work in progress...


V6 and black. That’s all I told my brother when I asked him to find me a car. He found me a V6, in black, with red leather interior.

Ok, let’s test drive this.

An hour later, I was buying this car, my first car, a 2.7L V6, 172 horsepower, 2008 Hyundai Tiburon GT Limited (tiburon is Spanish for “shark”), the most accessorized trim for the model with the red leather interior, Sirius XM radio, sunroof, fog lights, low-profile sport tires, and ‘select-shift’ transmission. I had performed my own research and was having trouble finding something for which I was comfortable paying. Whatever I drove away with, I needed to love it. Finances would be tight and I wanted to be sure that I wanted to pay for it every month.

I wanted a 6-cylinder engine because I was a young man. I wanted to pull out into traffic and roar up to speed with everyone else. I wanted to be pushed back in my seat as if I were on the back of some wild animal. I wanted to drive down that straightaway 70 mph highway feel the power of freedom over the bellowing of the engine.

Two speeding tickets later, though, I had given up on the whole going faster than the speed limit notion. You would think that fast cars were made for young people to get caught speeding in. But for someone my age, the acceleration of this beast leaves nothing to be desired.

I wanted a black car because black is appropriate for any occasion. It is colorless, but not characterless. It projects class and composure like a sharp man in a tuxedo, but also stealth and elusiveness like a thief in a black turtleneck and ski mask.  Black is about business and silent power, formality and dark strength. It has good manners, but will quietly dispatch opposition.

A complex duality to the color that lacks any color, but I wanted both personalities for my car. I am not a rambunctious red or a pristine white car man. I wanted both professional functionality and sleek style.

With the inclusion of red leather, this car became all about stylish business on the outside, and party on the inside. I had never expected or dreamed that I could afford a car with a leather interior, much less a fashionable leather interior. The expression “icing on the cake” does not properly do it justice. Rather, was like “icing with flowers made of icing on the cake made entirely of corner pieces”.

Of course, she has her one foible. Miles per gallon? Not too great, and I have the V6 to blame for that mostly. But after what I’ve mentioned previously, who cares?

With time, I would come to properly appreciate the ‘select-shift’ manual transmission, referred to as ‘Sport Mode’ in the user’s manual. I had initially been shopping for a manual transmission car, but after a harrowing experience with my father’s Jeep, I had decided that I was not that interested in dying so young. However, the select-shift on the Tiburon was exactly what the doctor ordered for the hand-foot coordination nightmare that is manual transmission for me: manual shifting with an automatic clutch. Because sometimes, you’ve got to be able to shift down to jump off that corner as fast as you want.

With all of these things combined, you get the sheer delight I experienced driving 70 mph down Highway 55 in the early morning in my stylish, sleek ‘shark’ sports car, Genesis blaring over the voracious roar of the V6. Is this love?