We’ve all had them. And if you haven’t had one, I’m sorry for you. Maybe there’s one out there in the your future. The vehicle that you love beyond reason.
For me, it was the 1975 Ford Granada. I loved that car. Beyond reason. It was my first car and it was a piece of crap. I had to pour gas on the carburetor to get the thing started on cold mornings. (I’m not sure I could find the carburetor in my car now) It was bought new by my grandparents and traded back and forth between them and my parents and probably my aunt and uncle, too – and then when I turned 16 – it was mine.
Nothing on it worked consistently. Nothing. Not the engine, steering, radio, AC or brakes. But it was sturdy, it was built like a tank. You could stand on the hood and sit on the roof. And it actually seemed to respond to my pleas and mental vibes. “Please start, please start. Good car. Good, good car.”
Like any much loved vehicle, it had a nickname. The Shit Mobile. I didn’t choose that. I prefered the simple and classy moniker “The Granada”. But my brother once took some white spraypaint and wrote SHIT on her blue hindquarter. His contribution to mine and a friend’s effort to decorate her for high school homecoming (the Granada, believe me, was not a part of any official celebration). My mom discovered the act before the paint had fully dried and wiped the Granada down with a Kroger bag. There was a big white smear and if you squinted and in the right light, you could still read SHIT.
My brother used to sing the song from the old Batman…Na-na Na-na Na-na Na-na Shit-mobeeeel. It was kind of infectious.
They sold that car when I was a freshman in college. I’m sure the Granada is long ago scrap. I haven’t been behind the wheel of the shitmobile in about 20 years, but I still have her ignition key in my jewelry box. Just in case I see her and we can ride away.
