We recently bought a car. It’s a shiny blue Renault Scenic, gently used and still under warranty. We fought against taking such a big step for a long time but having a baby makes you re-evaluate certain things, like whether you can continue to drive a car that occasionally catches fire.
Lurch, the grey Renault Megane that we’ve been using for the majority of our time here, has definitely seen better days. Most of them were during the last century. Its many flaws include a passenger side window stuck two inches from the top, no heat or air conditioning, no door handle on the passenger side, and a security system which malfunctioned and now requires the driver to push a button five times for a specific number of seconds each time before the engine will start. If you make the mistake of locking the car with the driver’s door closed, the only way to unlock the car is by sticking something long and narrow through the aforementioned two-inch window gap and poking the unlock button on the dash. It usually requires a palm frond, a steady hand, and remarkably good aim.
These little quirks merely served to give the car character and add a little excitement to the daily commute. They were inconvenient, sure, but hardly a reason to shell out for a new car. It wasn’t until July when we started thinking seriously about upgrading.
Lurch functions with a certain amount of regularity, in that you can count on it breaking down about once a month. July had been a particularly trying time since the car had started shuddering to a halt at inconvenient moments and then refusing to restart. We parked on inclines whenever possible, thinking that a rolling start would encourage the engine to turn over. When that wasn’t possible, we just hoped some good Samaritan would come along and help Ruyman push. (Being seven months pregnant, I wasn’t of much use).
One evening, Ruyman and I met his family down at the beach after work for a little quality time. Lurch had refused to start on the way there and only relented when threatened with a tow truck. After an hour of huddling in the sand trying to escape the wind, we decided to call it a night. Brothers and sisters worked together to coerce the car into a running start and Ruyman, his brother Brandon, and I set off for the house. Carmen and the girls tailed us in the van.
Ruyman was frustrated and stressed. To him, the embodiment of independence is the ability to go where you want to, when you want to. In his eyes, it’s what makes him an adult. Lurch was definitely messing with his “real man” mojo.
To take the edge off, Ruyman was singing. Between that and the engine noise, none of us heard the phone calls. Or the horn honking. Or the screaming. Even when Carmen pulled the van alongside, rolled down the window, and started shouting, we couldn’t understand what she was saying. During a rare moment when the motor sounded like a sedan instead of a small aircraft, Ruyman’s phone rang. It was his oldest sister, Tatiana, yelling at the top of her voice. “STOP! STOP! THE CAR’S ON FIRE!”
Ruyman is a fan of action films, so in his mind, car fires led to huge, billowing explosions. He yanked the wheel to the right, screeched to a stop, and jumped out of the car like a cobra had been giving him a lap dance. I had actually driven a car en flambé before, so I was a little more calm as I gathered our things and exited the vehicle. (Funny story, that. Highlights: people in post-surgical shock should not be trusted to make decisions, car exhaust that smells like peanut butter is a bad sign, and some things just aren’t worth wasting a cherry limeade on.)
Anyhow, the tow truck came. The car was fixed, insofar as that was possible, and we still decided not to risk it again. So we acquired Linus, a model of reliability.
Until it started shuddering to a stop and then refusing to start.
Stupid Renaults.
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