Damn, I had to get rid of that rental car. I didn’t so much mind driving it — if they weren’t built for shit, I wouldn’t mind having a four-door Doofusmobile. It’s like driving a high school gymnasium. Stately, you know?
The problem was the radio. It had a satellite radio, which I couldn’t figure out how to drive. I just plopped down on the first channel I found and hung there for fear I’d get lost up the dial. Blue Collar Radio 103. Stand up comedy. The Foxworthy Channel, basically. It was plenty entertaining, but six days is a long time to drive around dying for a beer.
So I drove from Boston to New Haven to buy another old Miata. I found it on the internet — the dealer had shaved two grand off the price because a convertible is a hard sell in Connecticut in January. It is black. It is very, very shiny. It is seven years old, but I cannot absorb this because the year 2000 was, like, DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY in my head. I think we still have toilet paper we hoarded for Y2K (I don’t care if we can flush, but we better be able to WIPE in this brave new millenium).
My previous car was a model year 1990, but it actually was delivered in the Summer of ’89. One of the very first Miatas to roll off the assembly line.
You know what driving home your-car-minus-ten-years is like? Imagine you wake up tomorrow and get in your car and somehow everything in it is a decade newer and the complete opposite. It used to be white, now it’s black. It used to have a growly, throaty, farty engine, and now it’s whiny and screamy. All the manual controls are electrical. All the analog is digital. All the radio pre-sets are wrong.
It’s like aliens poured my car in a replicator and it came out the other side different. On a molecular level. On top of which they decide to screw with me for no good reason. It’s nice but…creepy.
That’s what it’s like.