The Cougar, or "My First Shitbox"

Everybody who isn’t a nepobaby has their first shitbox. Perhaps even they do; it’s just that their first shitbox is a Tesla Roadster that they upgrade to a McLaren after wrecking it while doing lines of coke on the 405 in California. My first shitbox was a banged-up Mercury Cougar that my uncle Johnny sold to us for $500 and a shoeshine. That car was truly a piece of shit. The driver’s side window wouldn’t roll down, the passenger side door wouldn’t open (but the window worked), the radiator was a hot mess (literally), and the driver’s side seat had to be propped up with a 2x4 set between the back of the seat and the rear bench. It was — truly — the most awful car I have ever driven. But it was mine.

I had so many fun experiences in that car. Driving to Wenatchee to visit my biological father without directions, figuring that all the highways said either “East” or “West” and that I could figure out how to get there (this was before smartphones and GPS, and I wound up getting lost in a blizzard). Or those times I was going 45mph down Bombing Range Road (like everyone does) and got pulled over by the same rookie cop six times because I was the dork driving the shitbox. Or telling that same pig to give me a damn ticket already and quit wasting my time when he pulled me over a seventh time (he did give me a ticket, then never bothered me again).

That car was my first shitbox, and you’re gonna have one too someday (hopefully before you read this). I had to learn to change the oil (because it burned oil like a BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico — I’m sorry, “Gulf of ‘America’”), how to check the tire tread (use a penny and measure to Lincoln’s head — wait, they discontinued the penny — I guess you’re out of luck then), and how to measure tire pressure (just drive it until the tires go flat, then call Les Schwab to drive out and repair it for free — if they still exist by the time you read this). Yeah, I learned how to do a lot of work on cars back in the day. Regular maintenance, and then some. My guess is that by the time you read this, cars will be disposable commodities. You’ll drive one for three years, then toss it like a phone. You can’t repair much anymore anyways, at least not without consulting the all important code reader and having ready access to parts and equipment. And forget it on any kind of next-gen “smart car.” Those things are a death trap in-waiting.

I probably sound like a bit of a curmudgeon right now, and that’s sort of intentional. I’d like you to think back to an era where maybe you bought things to last. Think back to when a car would last you twenty years, and cost only a fifth of a year’s pay. Hearken to an age where you’d buy a car and it would be your identity for five, ten, or fifteen years. Think about how that would feel, about the emotional connection between person and machine. Consider how holding a stick that controls the transmission may feel like, left foot on clutch, right foot on throttle and brake. Dream for but a moment, close your eyes, and hear the gentle but persistent hum of the engine. Listen to the cylinder displacement, the timing of the firing of the pistons. Feel the engine revving up and reaching the liminal moment where you’re made to shift gears, and savor the tension of letting it ride a moment beyond the edge. Revel in saving your brake pads by downshifting while going downhill. And if I hadn’t sounded like a curmudgeon before, I’m sure I do now, as I’m a proud member of the Five Speed Shifting Club (this is not a real club, I’m just a dork). But seriously, learn how to drive manual. It teaches you a lot about transmission mechanics, engine matching, and has a certain zen-e-sais-quoi.

More importantly, get a shitbox so that you can have freedom and independence. Public transit has never been the best in Tacoma, and I’d rather you not become a recluse. Go have fun! Take a scenic ride around Five Mile Drive. Get a job twenty miles from home, and drive there. Experience gridlock. Feel the wind in your hair as you’re cruising down the highway with the windows down, and speakers blasting whatever the hell you kids listen to. Complain about gas prices. Having a car is an American experience — perhaps the only fragment of our culture that still persists in this day and age. It’s about being an adult, experiencing adult things, and having adult problems.

I wound up driving that car for a few long years, and then one summer the radiator finally gave out and exploded in the middle of George Washington Way in Richland. I had been staying that summer with Oma and Papa, and simply ran out of luck at an inopportune moment. Being a broke-ass college student at the time, I didn’t have any money on hand. So I had to call Papa to ask him to get my car towed. I didn’t have a cell phone at the time, to the best of my recollection. Or maybe it was dead, or I had left it at home (again, this was before people treated phones as extensions of our arms). So I had to call Papa while he was at work using this nifty thing called a “payphone.” They used to be all over the place, occupying little transparent booths, where people could pull over and duck in for a quick business or emergency call. Papa answered, and after about four back-and-forth calls arranging things, a tow truck showed up and hauled the shitbox and myself back to the house in shame.

I found out later that night that the 1-800-COLLECT calls I had made to his office got him in trouble with his boss. Apparently collect calls (which were charged to the receiver, not the initiator of the call) were expensive. I never used a payphone again.