I got in my car this morning with the intention to drive it another 40 miles around town, to reach the magic goal of pushing 100 miles worth of gas through my injectors to prove or remove a fuel clog. As I turned the first corner, with fuel pump whining loudly, transmission ca-thunking, and a back wheel peeling a high squeal, my heart couldn’t see the point in driving on.
There I was, trying to squeeze just a little bit more from a car one size too small for the life I lead, and too weirdly designed for parts to be found in stock; a car which I cannot tune up myself without an engine hoist. At 26mpg, I was certainly saving money on fuel but then I’d turn around and spend that same money for repairs which I usually do myself. I, more often than not, tend to have more time than money.
A few friends have offered to help pay for the repairs but, considering the overall issues (see next paragraph) it felt like a waste to replace the fuel pump (located in the gas tank) and fix the overworked transmission that overheats an engine already notorious for overheating.
And then there are Bruno’s personality quirks like windows that no longer roll up, doors that lock when they want to, wipers that seize in the rain, a heater that blows only when I run over bumps, dash warning lights that come on when climbing hills or turning left and turn off when going down hill and turning right. The passenger and driver’s doors no longer open from the outside and are barely able to be opened from the inside.
I’ve been told by more than a few that my car is a wreck but Bruno is my lovely wreck and he’s been getting me around faithfully despite age and issues.
So, yes, I knew this was coming but I’d been hoping to get farther along before thinking about another vehicular home. Last week I started a blog draft entitled ‘Hang In There Little Buddy’ but that piece is sadly outdated.
Little Buddy, Bruno the War Pony, is going to the parts yard.
Honestly, this is the uncomfortable yet necessary transition that I’d been hoping to avoid simply by measure of time. I’ve gotten used to my feral existence living in the fringe, as intractable as it sometimes seemed. But the fringe being the fringe, is living on the edge. And the edge, being the edge, is by nature a drop-off into holes such as this.
A camper-van-sized hole which may require a bit more monetary muscle to climb out of than my fledgling art and writing business can provide. So, I’m going to pull a comb through my hair, clean under my fingernails, and get a few suits and a pair of shiny shoes from the secondhand store. My resume is shook out and dusted off, portfolio updating in process, and I’m drafting cover letters. Time to take a fresh look at the old freelance web development dance.
Looks I might be spending some quality time in Philadelphia. Thankfully I have a warm and loving place to spend the winter while I roll up my sleeves and save for my next rolling home.