tim’s thought property

I hate the Passat.

Let me be more specific; I hate the Passat that I drive.
If there has been any one topic that has come up every month or so on this blog, it has been that car. And every time it is in a negative context. It has been one load of problems after another. In a conversation with Tim tonight, there was a moment that escaped in subtle cleverness, that only now upon recollection do I see the parallel. We were talking about the life-span of dogs vs. the cost of raising them. For example, a dog that lives 14 years is quite impressive. Now, in that time the family has strong attachments to it, let’s say it gets sick, they pay the vet fee, which can be upwards of $5000 if it’s a really loved pet. But that amount of money to be spent on an animal surgery is almost insane, especially if the dog is 14×7 years old (or 98 in human terms). I’ve never owned an animal other than fish, so I have no understanding of the bond that may for after 98 accelerated years between dog and man.Where am I going with this? Well, just like I would question spending so much money on an animal so late in life, I question spending money on a dying Passat, so late in it’s own life.
Well, I clipped the driver’s side mirror on the house, on Monday. I was watching the other side of the car while backing up, so I wouldn’t hit the railway ties that make a garden border on the neighbour’s property. As I was pre-occupied on one side, a loud SNAP! echoed in my ears, and I turned almost in slow motion, with the knowing look on my face - I broke that mirror. I backed it in, and went inside, making it no more of an issue. With this car, if it’s not something, it’s something else. You can mark those words.
I told my dad that evening, then went for my run. When I got home, I was given a list of items also broken or needed (such as a door-latch and window crank handle) and instructed to call around the junkyards and see if there were any 1992 Passats that were trashed and ripe for the picking. Fair enough. I damaged the car. I deserve to be responsible.
When we found a car, and Dad picked up the part, it was installed in no time. In fact, when I got home from the concert yesterday, I found on the floor of my room just beside my bed, the old, cracked and defunct side view. I picked it up and looked at it closer. Yep, the mirror was broken, alright. Even the wires dangled out the side.
So I walked downstairs, and all nonchalantly said to Dad, “So, if I keep breaking car parts, I’ll be able to construct my own car, right?”
“Well, what do you mean by that?”
“This side view makes two now, remember? I broke the passenger side mirror on the van two years ago.”
At this my dad gave a sort of silent look like “This one doesn’t know cars“, and I just went for it. In my dry, deadpan way of conversing I said, “Well I think I’ll wreck the transmission tomorrow, that way I can really get something of substance.”
To this my father responded with a stare that looked like it should be melting my resolve. I should have been fearful. So I went on. “I can get all the parts I need for a new Franken-mobile this way. Heck, I think that I’ll drive excessively fast down Highway 75 in the van, just to loosen up the axles. Yep, with all those broken parts, I’ll be able to make a new car that will be fully restored, costing me only time and effort, not cash.”
My father at one point spit out the coffee he was drinking, and said something like, “WHAT?! You are no son of mine! How can you even suggest such a thing? Do you know how much grief, anguish and agony that darned Passat has put me through? That is the sole reason you cannot go to university! That beast of a money trap has taken all the income out of my wallet and funneled it to the various garages in the city, who do their best to make a decent living! How dare you make light of the situation with that vile poison you call humour. That is not funny! That is not funny at all!”
I just stood, stared.
*blink* *blink*
“Well, I’m going to bed.” I said as I turned and left.