Growing up with my parents there was one thing you could always count on and that they would always be late. Very Late. So late you could call it by my new name - punctually retarded. To be waiting only a few minutes for one to show up would be a cataclysmic phenomenon of epic proportions that would have kittens and baby seals mating in harmonious fashion producing a world of cuteness that would be fueled by rainbows and summer daises. But alas this was not my world. My world then was spent with my eyes grazing over minute and hour hands wondering if my parents remembered if they even bared children.
Determined to rid these chains of this oppression, and despite my best efforts at winning the lottery, I entered the workforce. Working 2 jobs 7 days a week for minimum wage that summer I had just had enough to buy my first car, or a round trip plane ticket to Tijuana, just. One would think that such an individual who's worked so hard for so little cash, would do some research about the car he wants to buy. Nay I say. Back then thinking was not my strong suit and my brain barley had 10% control of my thoughts which it needed to support basic motor function and any diseases I may encounter in my travels.
So where does one even begin? Unlike today where a simple stroke of a keyboard you get over a thousand results of cars for sale or girls looking for a good time in your area, back then it was spread by word of mouth, the local buy and sell, or seeing a "for sale" sign on the windshield. Barely able to complete full sentences when talking to the opposite sex, I decided to ask for my parent’s advice on the topic. Naturally like all good parents they try to steer you towards the "safe" domestic cars such as a Dodge, Ford, or GM, you know, the girl next door - the one who may go to your local church, get straight A's in class, and who wears Sunday dresses. I do fancy Sunday dresses on women, but being 18 with hormones and booze making the majority of my decisions for me, I picked up the first pretty girl that caught my eye, and took her home that night. A 1984 Mazda RX7. In metallic brown.
There is something mysterious about Japanese girls, an X-factor, something sexy, some might even say taboo. Being a small town Canadian teenager their Asian beauty is even more tempting. One might argue that it’s not hard for one to standout if they are the only koi fish in the pond. True, but like all men it’s in our genetics to be attracted to things that bounce, dangerous extracurricular activities, and flashy/foreign objects. One cannot deny nor turn away from their petite size, smooth body lines and great rear end that calls out to you and says "com'on big boy, you know you wanna go for a ride!" She would be the girl you bring home to meet the parents wearing nothing but a low cut tank top, a plaid miniskirt, with knee-high stiletto boots sporting colored sex hair. The type of girl your parents would just love to hate and the one they would warn you about...trouble. And she was all kinds of it.
Now a rookie to the game, and like all first relationships you tend to ignore the early warning signs, look past their imperfections and quirks, and for a short while enjoy pure, utter, blissful ignorance.
Sure she has a dent here and a little bit of rust there - nothing some surgery couldn't fix.
Low Ride height? I like crawling on my hands and knees to get out, plus the neighbors already think I'm an alcoholic.
Gas gauge doesn't work? No problem. There's always a gas station nearby and she'll let me know when she is upset with me by not moving.
Engine makes a little noise? Bah, it’s her just whispering sweet nothings in my ears.
Check oil light always on? She just needs more loving.
Hard to start? She’s just playing hard to get.
Blows a little bit a smoke? She’s just letting off some steam; I should take her out more often.
Or so I thought.