First Car

This is the sad and rather long history of my first car—how I obtained it, how I abused it, and finally how it died a rather startling death.

Part 1
The summer I turned seventeen I decided it was time to buy a car.  I had saved and scrimped, and worked, and slowly amassed just enough money to buy a cheep, old, high millage car.  First of all, I hate car shopping.  Possibly the only thing I hate more is job hunting.  I live in a small city—technically I live just outside a very small city in the county—which means I am far away from where most people live—which means that their cars are far away from me also.  Ultimately I end up dragging friends and family around with me for long extended trips when I go car shopping.  It is rather miserable.

On one such excursion out into the very large city of about 190,000 people I found my dream car.  It was old, it had high millage, and it was everything I had ever wanted in a car!  I have this thing about red cars.  I was sold on getting this car right up until I actually sat down in it to take it for a test drive.



Me: "Hey why are there three pedals on the floor?"

Mom: "There's a gas pedal, a brake pedal, and the clutch."

Me: "What's a clutch?"

Mom: "You use it to drive stick-shifts."

Me: "What's a stick-shift?"

Mom, raising an eyebrow: "A type of car."

Lady selling the car, now looking a little frazzled: "Are you sure you still want to take it for a test drive?"

Me, stubborn: "Yes."

Driving a stick-shift for the first time was rather nerve racking—for me, for my mother, for the woman who actually owned the car.  This particular car did not have any of the numbers labeled for the stick, so along with learning how to use the clutch, I had to guess where each gear shift was.

I stalled six or seven times before I was out of sight of the owner's house, with my mother gently encouraging me on.  I stalled another few times down the first street before I decided maybe I shouldn't buy the car—or perhaps even drive the car.  I decided to get the the end of the street and turn around again, however, the stop sign at the end of the road proved more difficult to traverse than I'd thought at first.

I stalled a yard in front of the stop sign, then two feet in front of it, then one, then half a foot, etc.  Then I began having trouble getting the car to start up again at all.  My fingers began shaking.

Another car turned down the street behind me.

Me: "I can't get the car to start!"

Mom: "It will be alright, just turn the key again."

Me, watching the car as it gets closer: "I can't do this.  I hate cars!"

Mom: "Just ease up slowly—oh, well, just turn the key again."

Me, freaking out: "We're never going to get past this stop sign!"

The car behind us stops.

I stall the car.

The car pulls up an inch.

I stall again.

The person behind the wheel watches me while my car sputters in and out of life. 

The car pulls forwards, stops at the stop sign, and drives past me.

I cry.

This was my first experience with a stick-shift—I did not buy the car and have stayed far away from stick-shifts ever since.  I found a very nice Toyota with automatic transmission to buy instead.