When it came time to put down an aging family member, I just couldn't pull the trigger.
FUD is 22 years old. That's about 122 in human years. While he carries a pedigree of longevity, he is a fairly frequent visitor to his team of dedicated gerontologists, is tattered, creaky, faded, decidedly unattractive by any popular standards, and held together with duct tape, Superglue and Bondo.
No, I mean really held together by duct tape, Superglue and Bondo.
FUD is our 1987 Volvo 240DL. His team of gerontologists is Bill and John at the Bug Clinic over on Kirkman and 11th. And FUD does have a roll of duct tape, a tube of Superglue, and a tub of Bondo in his glove compartment, which itself has sagged a bit and is now held shut by a most unsightly window clasp unit I got at Gayle's Hardware. I think that put me back $1.50, including four big metal-cutting screws which attach it to the little door and the lower side of the passenger's side dashboard.
Don't try to adjust your monitor. The picture's not fuzzy. That's really how FUD looks. On a good day.
I bought FUD off a used car lot on Kirkman, just a few blocks down from the Bug Clinic, for $2,400 eleven years ago. I know it was eleven years because Jen was 14 and was looking forward to beginning driver's training. She had never taken much interest in cars, but as the reality of being able to carry a driver's license rose above her radar, she started paying attention. She'd drop hints of what she'd deign to drive. I forget exactly what was on her list, but it was what passed for sporty SUVs back then and a few sporty cars too.
What she didn't realize was that I had her car already picked out. There were two options, but given that we lived in Lake Charles, there was really only one. When I saw FUD while driving by, I pulled into the gravel lot and within a few minutes knew I had found what I was looking for.
He was a sickly yellow, was missing a hubcap, and had purple windows, betraying an aging and probably substandard job of window tinting. I drove him, and though he needed a tuneup and some freon, he did OK. The front seat had a decided tilt toward the center of the car, indicating the previous owner from Breaux Bridge was large and liked to lean to the right.
The dash had a heat crack in it, one familiar to any owner of an aging 200-series Volvo anywhere south of Pennsylvania. He had one of those crown odor eaters on the ledge in front of the rear window, which only covered a gumbo of questionable odors up with a cloying cologne smell. That and the weak A/C unit meant the windows stayed down during our test drive. Roll-downs, not power. This was a DL, not a GL model. FUD's odometer was frozen at 66,673 miles. It never budged during my test drive.
The sales guy, who had a bad suit and a rumpled shirt also stained with a sickly shade of yellow, magnanimously allowed as how the car probably had about a hundred-thousand miles. I think he was off by, well, about a hundred thousand. This car had 200,000 miles on it if it had a mile. He wanted $3,000. I offered $2,000. We settled at $2,400. He seemed OK with it and I was too, so I guess everyone went to the beach on that transaction.
When Jen got home from school, she saw the undistinguished yellow Volvo in the driveway.
"What's that?" she asked.
"That's your sports car."
"Why a Volvo?"
I was ready for this one, and took just a little too much fatherly joy in delivering the answer. "Because I couldn't find anyone in Lake Charles who can repair a Checker Marathon, which was your only other choice." (Canadian-built Checkers, for those of you in the dark, were for years the choice of New York cabbies, also pretty much indestructible, utilitarian, and as un-sporty as possible.
Old 200-Series Volvos have a deserved reputation as little tanks. Built like a box around a roll cage, dealers would frequently show prospective customers Polaroid pics of wrecks that had been towed back to their repair shops. Generally mangled metal wrapped around an intact roll cage. The occupants shaken but not horribly stirred. Nowadays car makers opt for much lighter cars and lots of airbags and high-tech safety stuff, mostly to control costs and eek out as much gas mileage as possible.
So Jen's race car was boxy and yellow and not very fast. Perfect for my daughter the new driver.
I told her I'd put a radio and CD player in and paint it whatever color she wanted. She chose a darkish green, an earth-tone which sort of went with the tan seats. $299 at one of those one-price places. He assured me with little humor it was not a water-based paint which would wash off with the first rain a la the movie "Used Cars." A shot of Freon, new belts, some new brakes, and Jen's first ride was ready to roll.
Jen didn't exactly learn to love her first car, but appreciated it for what it was. Wheels. Freedom. Her own ride which she didn't need to ask permission to borrow. It served her well for several years, including getting her back and forth to the Louisiana School for Math, Science and the Arts in Natchitoches, where she excelled in her Junior and Senior years of High School.
Just before graduation, she was rewarded for her fine academics with the key to a brand-new silver VW Beetle with a sunroof; her dream car in time for college. The Volvo became our spare car back in Lake Charles since it was dependable and cheap to keep & insure.
One of our KPLC account executives, Kathlene Deaville, one day found herself without a car. Her car was in the shop and no rentals were available. KPLC lives and dies financially on the backs of our great sales team, so I gladly threw her the keys to the Volvo so she could make her calls.
"I get to drive Fud?"
"Fud?" I asked.
"Yes, that's what we call your car. Check out your license plate."
Indeed, the Volvo's license plate begins with FUD. To this day I couldn't tell you what the three numbers after that are. But thanks to Kathlene the moniker stuck at home, and we wondered why we had never called it (him) that before. It seemed, well, appropriate.
Through the years FUD has gotten us where we needed to go, safely and almost always dependably. There have been glitches which Bill and John have patiently ironed out. Sometimes I'd bring FUD to Bill and ask to have something repaired. "Now Jim, why on earth would you want that fixed on that old car?" he'd ask, saving me untold sums of money. Half the time he wouldn't even charge me for quick fixes. Half the time I'd stuff money under his register when he wasn't looking.
It was a theme I got used to. Just the other day I was in Market Basket in Southgate. A nattily-dressed older man with a nice hat was standing in front of the checkout lines. He watched me pull up and walk in the grocery. "Are you that Hot Spot man?" he asked as I walked up to the shopping carts.
"Yes, I am, that's me," I replied.
"I see," he said thoughtfully. "Do they pay you OK there at the TV station?"
"Well, yes, I guess after all these years I do OK," I replied.
He pointed to FUD, parked across the aisle. "Then why you be driving that ratty old car?"
I mumbled something about really liking that car and not having the heart to get rid of it. I could have told him that it's my go-to car for driving to New Orleans if I know I've got to drive in certain neighborhoods or park on the street or worst yet entrust to one of Tony Soprano's boys who run the valet park concession at one of the city's vaunted hotels.
I could have told him that FUD was about as theft-proof as a car can be. The paint is now so faded and oxidized, the dash cracked in so many places, the plastic hubcaps so nicked and logo-free that no one else would want it. I could have told him that FUD has been driven into by wildly stoned drivers both on Carrollton in New Orleans and on FM 1960 near the Houston Airport. I could have told him that the dent right above the window over the driver's seat happened in the middle of Texas on a completely clear night as something crashed above my head, missing the window by less than an inch. It was apparently something from the sky. It came straight down. A bit of meteorite? We'll never know.
I could have told him that FUD saw the nail-strewn, eerily desolate streets of Lake Charles before most humans did, just as the winds of Hurricane Rita started dying down. The "nicer" cars stayed safely in the garage till things were back to normal. If Gustav comes here, FUD will reprise his role as "hurricane car."
I could have told him that FUD transported my daughter safely for several years, and my wife and me for many years after that.
I could have told him that FUD was, for all intents and purposes, a trusted and beloved member of our family.
But I didn't. He probably wouldn't have understood, nor cared anyway.
The other day my friend Ryan Navarre and I were driving back to the Sulphur dealership from our regular Big Meat Wednesday at Hollier's (the best place to meet people in Calcasieu Parish, for my money). We were driving either my Tahoe or his, I don't remember. As we pulled up to his showroom, he pointed across the street. "That's the first Hybrid Malibu in Southwest Louisiana."
Wow. Now, Deb and I are mostly big SUV people. We have a Tahoe and a Suburban in the driveway, plus FUD as the "spare." But my shallow male heart skipped a beat when I laid eyes on the vision of loveliness Ryan was pointing to. Brushed gray, lean, light and gray two-tone interior, gorgeous lines, the much-touted Malibu also sported little green Hybrid tags indicating the newly-sexy hybrid technology inside, and even green valve stem caps indicating nitrogen-filled tires.
"I want to go look at it," I told him.
"OK," he said, knowing fully well I didn't need a car. Do you want me to get the keys to it?
"Naw," I said as nonchalantly as possible.
We walked across the street. I stood there, arms crossed, and looked at it. It looked like it was going 100 miles an hour just sitting there in the lot, as bright and fresh and full of promise as moonlight in a martini.
"I'll take it."
"Huh?"
"Wrap it up. It's mine."
This is why guys get into trouble. At least my transgressions have been steel and rubber. I bought a red Miata from a used lot about 15 years ago the same way. Easiest sale that guy ever made.
Debbie merely rolled her eyes when I drove it up to our house, one of Ryan's salespeople following me in our Tahoe. "You did what?" she asked.
So I screwed up all my best justification for my impetuous purchase. It was all plausible. The Volvo was on its last legs. It would cost more than it was worth to keep past the next round of inevitable repairs and tires. The dog ate my homework. Ryan gave me a good deal on a trade-in for FUD.
The last part was actually true, mostly because Ryan's a friend and he probably thought I was half nuts or at least mid-50's crazy. I'm sure when I asked him how much he'd give me for FUD he was thinking that I should probably pay him to haul it off, but he humored me. "Just get me the title," he advised.
Title? Heck, I'm sure the title to the Volvo exists somewhere, but I haven't seen it in over a decade, and have no idea if it's properly filed or not. But the truth is, after a few days of driving the Malibu, which I still absolutely love, I realized this new fling just couldn't come at the expense of an old devoted love.
"So you're telling me we've got the new car PLUS we're keeping FUD," Deb observed with wifely appraisal. "Yes," I replied, basically reversing the logic I had originally tried on her, recounting all of FUD's many assets and contributions, and even invoking Jennie and her new husband John as reasons we should be amassing a fleet. To seal the deal, I also cited our then nearly comatose Cocker Spaniel Cobi, who lived way past his years, by now more tumor than canine, kept alive with love and care and frequent tuneups by his own gerontologist, Downtown Animal Hospital's beloved Dr. Jay Carter.
"I just can't put FUD down," I said, giving her my best sad puppy dog eyes. Deb's a dog person. I figured this was an unfair but ultimately rock-solid analogy.
As with most wives of 27+ years, Deb primarily wants to ensure that I'm not a danger to myself, herself, or others, and beyond that gives her husband more leash than he probably deserves in instances such as this. FUD stayed, and continues to be driven regularly enough to keep his joints from creaking or losing juice from his battery.
Cobi, sadly, has gone to his reward. Jay did the right thing per our request and let us know when it was time. Smartly, he waited until Deb and I were in Ireland, and let us know upon our return that Cobi had passed peacefully. We were more appreciative than he'll ever know.
FUD is technically an antique and eligible for antique plates. But we doubt we'll ever do that, because his license plate has become as much a part of his personality as his cracked dashboard, the faint smell of Superglue, his yellowish headlight lenses, or the almost-clear backup lens which looks suspiciously like a cutout from a fluorescent light cover I found in a construction site trash pile.
Jennie meanwhile still drives her VW, now blowing mostly lukewarm air from its A/C vents, inside and out nearly as beat up and as road-worn as our Volvo. Her one-time dream car is now frequently subject to yearnings for a new rolling love to go with her new husband and new house.
But the acorn never falls terribly far from the tree. Though Cobi is gone, Jen & John have a new pup named "Huey" (named for our esteemed former Governor), a rescue dog. Meaux Jeaux, a rescue cat, shares their house as well. And the old Beetle sits in their driveway next to John's fairly new Silverado, full of dings and dents and rips and tears and non-working parts.
In fact, the other day John took the VW to a construction site in New Orleans and was backed into by a truck with a tow bar. These two pictures show the result. I was secretly pleased at Jen's response to this latest and greatest indignity to the car she once babied and primped and protected.
"You gonna take the opportunity to just take the fellow's insurance settlement and trade it in?" I asked.
"Naw," she drawled. "We'll just fix it. It still runs fine. No problem."
So the VW lives, as does FUD. And as Deb and I grow older, I'm pleased to know that in our family beauty does come in its own special way with age, through the wear and tear of the passing years.
Because someday she may be looking at one or both of us and wondering if it's time to pack the old folks off to the wholesaler, auction or crusher.
I'm hoping that like FUD, when push comes to shove we'll merit a bit of a reprieve to prove our remaining usefulness for at least another day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Note that the views expressed on this blog are mine alone and do not necessarily represent the views of Raycom Media or KPLC. Please note that links frequently take the reader to third-party sites. Raycom and KPLC are not responsible for content on these sites. -Jim S.
Recent Comments