A Street Car Named Lurch

Carmen has three cars: a green van, a purple van, and a grey car. To the best of my knowledge, they were all gifts or trades of some kind acquired back in the good old days when Spain’s underground bartering economy still functioned (circa 2005). The one that Ruyman and I use is the grey one. It’s a European brand whose logo looks like a zombie lion. In fact, the whole car looks like it’s been zapped back to life one time too many. For that reason, I have named the car “Lurch.”

Lurch is always near breakdown. Either the brakes are shot or the clutch is fried or a tire explodes. Other quirks, like how you have to thump the passenger door six inches above the handle in order to open it or how the radio comes on if you hit the bumps just right, add to its charm. But for the most part, Lurch is a benevolent soul and only breaks down when Carmen is driving it. I am very thankful for this because a) we don’t have any money to fix him and b) it makes it look less like our fault when he breaks. Which it’s not. Seriously. The car was held together with duct tape and baling wire a long time before we showed up. (Yes, Mom, it’s perfectly safe.)

In order to keep Lurch lurching, Carmen has some sources she goes to for parts and such. We went to one of them on Friday. Since I am the daughter of a car aficionado, I’ve seen my fair share of mechanic shops. This one blew me away. Totaled cars were stacked neatly on what looked like giant spice racks three cars high. Despite the lack of restraints holding the cars in position, the mechanic shimmied up the pile to see if that one or this one had a more Lurch-like door panel. According to the sign on the door, we weren’t even supposed to be in there but that didn’t stop us from going under and around dead cars in search of the perfect power window motor. I suppose it was dangerous but I didn’t fear for my life until we were out of the warehouse and into the yard. There was a large sign detailing the rules: hard hat, steeled toed boots, reflective vest, etc. The workers were hatless, bootless, and vest-less, but that all took a back seat to the forklift driver and the trucker who danced with death in the middle of the entrance.

The forklift was the kind you see hoisting big pallets of toilet paper at Costco, only in this case, it was lifting cars and placing them unsteadily on a multilayered semi. The forklift operator was a man of many talents. For instance, he drove, lifted, smoked, and talked on his cell all at once. The cars teetered on the flimsy arms of the lift and a few times he almost backed over some bystanders.

The truck driver was trying to help out by using his hands to hold up the unsecured cars as they were placed on the truck. Occasionally, he half climbed in one of the cars and dangled his feet under the wheels. He didn’t seem to mind when one of the cars he was wrangling rolled backwards and almost hit one of the support beams for the main office.

It was like watching one of those action movies where you know for sure the oil tanker is going to blow up, and all you’re waiting for is someone to light the match. I still kick myself for not having my camera on me.