HLB

I had a car …

… not in Africa, but in Montana. It was the first and only car I ever owned, and may be the last. The car was the result of a deal I struck with my mom: help me pay for my therapy and buy me a car, and I’ll go to grad school. How could she say no? Next time I went home, she said, “Your car’s out back.”

I went out back, strangely excited. I hadn’t expected to feel this way. I mean, I’d never needed a car of my own; I didn’t follow cars; cars didn’t get me hot. But all of a sudden, I found myself envisioning a bright red, shiny sports car that could beat anything on the road, probably with a convertible top that would be down as I flashed past admiring crowds, my left arm casually draped over the open window or adjusting my sunglasses, my right arm balanced lightly on the black leather steering wheel.

I arrived out back. I looked around, not seeing the car of my dreams. Then I saw it. It was the only car there. It was a faded yellow, aged, ’73 Volkswagen Superbeetle. It looked somehow lonely and sad. My heart sank, and I almost cried.

At that point in my life, I did not appreciate the cachet implicit in owning a true antique, especially one of the Volkswagen brand. If I had been surprised at feeling excited anticipation, I was also surprised at how depressed and upset I now felt. I opened the tiny door, which felt like opening a piece of tin foil, and got into the tiny driver’s seat.

Everything was tiny. It was like being in a toy car. The dashboard was literally in my face. In fact, the entire front of the car was in my face. There was no hood to speak of. I was looking down at the ground directly in front of the car. There were almost no controls or dials, aside from the speedometer, the gas gauge, and the stick shift. Everything was black—no, grey, after having been faded by age—plastic. Everything was dusty and smelled like the inside of a pawn store: tired, old, weathered, and forgotten.