Life With A Werewolf

Never Ask A Guy Named Crash To Buy You A Car

You can listen to the blog here,
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gH9whi8XoZc

         Independence is a very important thing, especially to someone like me. You have to be able to feel as if you can do things on your own. It doesn't matter if it's as simple as changing your oil or repairing your home. You must be able to do those minor things, or else in the back of your mind during the major problems you'll have that little voice asking you 'can you really handle this?'
         I've had that voice far too often for the past several months. After my ex left and pretty much took everything I had, what I really had left was a photograph half a closet of clothing, and some military gear. That was it. I didn't even have all of the gear I was issued, (which was a lot of fun when I went to sign out for the final time, let me tell you.) I had nothing left to my name. No family left that honestly cared if I lived or died. I had Al Cohol, Jim Beam, Jack Daniels and a whole lot of time to party with those three friends of mine who were determined to kill me slowly. Ozzy is right - suicide is slow with liquor.
         But Crash dragged me out of that place, away from those things. For the first few days he was keeping a pretty close eye on me. I could drink with him, a beer on occasion in the evenings. That was it. No liquor. No wine. Nothing stronger than beer and no more than two on a Friday with him.
         If you're a drunk like me two beers pretty much will just piss you off. It won't be enough to even get you relaxed, let alone buzzed. It's just enough to remind you of the drug you used to enjoy and the good friends you used to party with. However, I thought it was in my best sense of self preservation to not tell Crash no. After all, he was my friend of several years at this point, but he was still a werewolf. Which was a mysterious and dangerous creature of an origin that still remains unknown to me.
         Given that I couldn't drink, had to ride with Crash or Kris if I wanted to go somewhere (Zack had a license but barely drove anywhere), life was getting a little difficult. Sure, working was just a bit out of the question. But I still wanted to feel the road beneath my tires, roll down a window feel the wind blowing in my hair. Blast my favorite songs, sing along at the top of my lungs as I cruised down empty roads and highways. Taste the freedom, as it where.
         Freedom is a key ingredient in independence. You must be free to succeed or fall flat on your face in life. It's the act of picking yourself back up that teaches you independence, that teaches you how to be alone in this cold, harsh world. Those where things that I had lost. When my ex took everything, and I got injured I lost just about every ounce of freedom I had. Which caused me to lose my independence. Which caused me to lose my self respect. It was about damn time to get some of all of those things back.
         Crash was the one who brought it up first on a Friday night. We were sitting in the back of his yard, the trees pushing forward onto the property, casting pitch black shadows in the blackest of night. Occasionally wind would blow through these trees, causing these shadows to dance in the dim moonlight and orange light of our bon fire, making it look as if the very dark itself had come alive.
         His large frame pressed out against a small lawn chair. It creaked and groaned in complaint with each movement and adjustment he made, but it never broke. He had a beer in one hand, sipping it, playing with his cell phone in the other. "I think it's about time we got you a car." He said, before taking a sip.
         "I've been meaning to ask you that." I replied. I had already met my "two beer" limit, the two casualties of our little party sitting by my chair, their wrinkled and crumbled bodies reflecting glinting light from the bonfire. "I think it's time I got one."
         "Yes, would let you get to your appointments," he replied.
         I had a VA appointment two towns over. It was the closest one, and would take over an hour to get there. But I had to get there. Kris with his job wasn't able to take me. That would only leave Crash, who tried not to grumble, but I could tell riding me around everywhere was starting to get to him.
         I looked down at the fire a bit, waiting. "What kind of cars do you like?" He asked eventually, still stabbing and swiping at his phone with his finger.
         "I don't know. Mustangs and Chargers I guess," I replied.
         He chuckled. "You got a mullet under there somewhere you hiding?"
         I smiled. "Yeah, it's in my closet next to the silver bullets."
         "Funny, ha. Jokes on you, I happen to like silver," he grinned.
         We went back and forth as he scrolled over Facebook marketplace and Craigslist and other places looking for vehicles. Old Lincoln Towncar? No, I said, I may have a bad hip and back but I wasn't that old. A Dodge diplomat from the eighties? My only response was to tell him that I thought we were friends. Finally, his whole face lit up.
         "I got it! I got it!" he shouted.
         "What is it?" I asked.
         "Do you trust me?" His face was complete innocence and trustworthiness. Two ingredients that I would come to learn in a werewolf meant that they were up to mischief.
         "I guess," I sighed.
         "Good!" he said. Then began typing furiously on the phone, communicating with someone back and forth. I don't know what was being negotiated. I do know that the original price was three thousand, but he was able to whittle it down to around two grand. For something. I didn't know what though. All weekend I couldn't get much out of him about it, other than "You'll grow to love it, I'm sure."
         "Grow to love it," I said.
         "Yes, I know you will." He said with a grin.
         "So, won't love it in the beginning," I frowned.
         He would only smile and not say anything else more. The teasing went back and forth for a while, with me wondering what sort of strange contraption that was supposed to be a car he came up with. Would it be that strange Lebaron from the eighties, a car that would need as much lemon Pledge as it needed wax? Or could it have been the Suzuki Samari? A vehicle that can go almost anywhere, just won't get there fast.
         A thousand possibilities ran through my mind until Monday rolled around and my appointment. The trip through the hills and up to the interstate was made in relative silence. The quiet chatter of the morning DJs and the inane sounds of pop music drifted up through the Cadillac's speakers as we rode our way up from the woods into civilization.
         Once traffic thickened up, he pulled off the interstate onto a small side road that lead us right to the VA, where I would begin my appointment and he disappeared, grinning. I had given him a check earlier for twenty two hundred dollars. I deeply regretted it, but figured, it's Crash. Either I was going to get the Charger I wanted, or it was going to be a weird Jeep or Cadillac that they only made for a year or two. Either way it would be a unique and awesome car.
         So, I went inside, went through my appointment, the entire ordeal taking about a half hour. When I began to leave, Crash stood up in the lobby, grin on his face. "Come on," he said, "I got to show this to you."
         Sitting in the parking lot of the strip mall that the VA resided in was a 1993 Mercury Topaz. It was gold. Or at least I think it was gold. The color more closely resembled what someone blind who had never seen color before might have thought gold looked like if it had been described to them. There wasn't any rust on it, so it had that, but the rear bumper had a sticker stating "don't blame me, I didn't vote for Hillary" on the back. There was numerous bumps and dips in the front and back, obvious evidence of an elderly owner who held on to it and drove it a bit more than they honestly should have.
         "What do you think?" He asked, grinning wider.
         "If you paid more than two for this, I got ripped off." I growled.
         "Two thousand," he replied as I opened the door.
         I watched the automatic seat belt move, rolling quickly forward in the car towards the front. I knew once I sat down it would attack me with machine like speed and precision. "I hope you mean two dollars, and not two thousand dollars," I mumbled, looking inside.
The interior looked immaculate and old. I half expected to see a Pearl Jam CD shoved somewhere under a floor mat or something. It had old car scent. That scent that said it was sitting somewhere forgotten for far too long.
         "It's perfect!" he beamed. I could see that the mileage was sitting around seventy thousand miles. Grandma's garage kept church car it looked like.
         "It's crap," I grumbled.
         The conversation was a little tense on the way back to Crash's car. He had taken the Topaz out for a "test drive" that had ended in the VA parking lot, with me driving back through the town side roads and neighborhoods to the small house that the car came from. It wasn't a rich neighborhood but a safe one, with power lines running two and fro above cracked streets. The trees where old and thick, providing ample shade above the old roads. Some of the fences were rusty, but every yard was well kept. It was a neighborhood for starting out and a neighborhood for finishing up, with some yards littered with brightly colored plastic toys and others with plants and gardens. In front of an ancient looking brick home, sat Crash's Caddy. We pulled up to it, and he paused a moment.
         "Look," he sighed, staring at his car. "I know you want something sporty. I didn't give him a dime yet. If you don't want this car, I'll give you your money back. But just hear me out."
         "I'm listening," I said.
         "This car isn't your permanent car. It's the first car you get that's dependable. The one you can drive to places while your fun car is being fixed. That car we'll get next. That one you save up for so you can get the exact one you want. So you'll have two cars, one you take to the grocery store, and one you take to the track." He said.
         I nodded in reply. "Makes sense. This car really that reliable?"
         "Well, this model I'd usually laugh and say no. But that old woman who owned it," he shook his head slowly while he spoke, "she was a bit eccentric. Every single thing on it she would get changed and replaced. Yearly coolant flushes. Yearly transmission fluid changes. Yearly power steering fluid changes. Her kids never understood it, but she would tell them 'a vehicle needs taken care of' or some crap like that."
         "So, what does it need," I asked. After all, used cars always need something. When you buy used, you're buying someone else's problems, after all.
         "Tires. And a battery I think. That's it." He looked back at me, a strange earnestness in his face. "I asked if you trusted me," he said, "this is what I meant. I'm telling you, it's not flashy, it's not beautiful but it will last you three or four years easy with no troubles."
         So, that's how I became the proud owner of a Mercury Topaz. I didn't like it at first, but it slowly began to grow on me. It wasn't the car cars n coffee or for meet ups of any kind. But it was the reliable little engine that just couldn't quit on me. The slow grocery getter that got me to the store, to my appointments and back again with no problems. It was the one, when a little over a year later, I finally had the cash and drove up to the Dealership to buy my slightly used Charger. It was the one Crash drove home when I drove that Charger back to my house, a huge smile on my face.
         It's the car I use for everything except driving fast. It's been dead reliable. So, agreeing with that old lady, yearly I change the transmission fluid, the power steering fluid, the brake fluid, and of course every three thousand miles or so I change the oil. This little car takes care of me. So I take care of her.