When I was in high school I drove my older bother's truck while he was away on his mission. I think it was a ’90 Toyota pickup. It was beautiful and it had a rockin' sound system. I vividly remember driving around in the summer’s heat with the window rolled down bumpin’ Warren G “Regulators”. This was followed up with Erasure, Depeche Mode, Smashing Pumpkins, and Garth Brooks. It was an eclectic mix of music to say the least.
Not only did the truck look good and sound good but it also had a rear license plate cover that read, “My name is Brandon and I’d rather be scoring.” The first time my dad read it, he gave me that sharp piercing gaze and demanded in that angry father tone, “Take that off!”
“What do you mean dad?” I said naively.
“Mike Meacham (an adult leader from church) gave it to me because I like basketball.”
That was the last time it was ever mentioned it and the plate cover stayed. The license plate cover did however continue to cause a stir. I remember on more than one occasion looking through my rear view mirror watching people in the car behind me with their sides splitting. I don’t know what is so funny about making baskets.
One afternoon, my mom walked into the living room while I was watching TV.
“Brandon, do you want to go out and look for a car?"
I whipped my head 180 degrees with my body still facing forward watching Pickett Fences.
I was so excited at the prospect of climbing behind the wheel of a souped up muscle car my heart nearly burst in my chest. I could just imagine myself out with a beautiful girl in my arm speeding down the interstate. I hurried and gathered my mix tapes and shot out the door knocking my sister over like a bowling pin hit by a freight train.
“MOVE!” I blasted as she took a plunge disapearing into a giant Juniper bush.
We soon arrived at an enormous parking lot filled with cars. The cars were sparkling in the afternoon sun. I walked through the mile long rows of beautiful cars with my mouth agape. There were hundreds of cars to choose from. Then I started looking at the sticker prices.
$15,000… $20,000… $25,000…
A greasy man on a flannel suit came over and offered us a helping hand and a yellow stained tooth grin.
“Hiya folks, how are you doing today? Anything in particular you’re looking for?"
“Well, I want something sporty but not too lavish.” I proclaimed.
Dad quickly interjected, “… with no bells or whistles”.
“How much you lookin to spend”, he inquired.
“What’s the cheapest thing you got?”
“Hmmm… let me think…”
“I think we have a car in your price range.”
We walked across the lot …
Opps wrong car. Actually, it looked like this-
After all the wheeling and dealing was done, I was headed home in my ’86 Toyota Fish tank.
I had the all treble radio (apparently the previous owner had a custom treble only radio installed) blasting when suddenly the gearshift jumped out of gear.
Clunk…
I quickly shoved it back in gear.
Clunk…
It popped out of gear again.
I quickly found that the car wouldn’t stay in gear on its own. Everywhere I drove I had to hold the shifter in gear.
One evening as I was driving out of my neighborhood, I spotted a crazy stalker sitting in his car watching everyone in the neighborhood come and go. I gave a curious glance at him and continued on my way. As I continued driving, I saw the suspicious man pull out and start following me. I quickly put the pedal to the medal and took off like the Starship Enterprise at warp speed. Well, actually more like a sick cow with terrible arthritis and a bad hip.
The lunatic quickly caught up to me and pulled up in the lane of oncoming traffic. He began starring me down as if I was some sort of arch nemesis of his. Fortunately, after a several minutes of sheer terror, the man turned back around and drove back to his stalking post.
Later that same night, my friend Wyatt and I were headed downtown. As we were driving, I went to shift gears but the car wouldn’t go into gear anymore. We were stuck on the side of a busy road.
Wyatt declared, “Wow! If your car had broken down a couple hours earlier you would probably be lying in a ditch right now.”
“Ohh man. That would have sucked.” I chuckled.
I later found out that my clutch broke. I have heard of them wearing out but I have never heard of one breaking before. Nonetheless I spent the next two weeks after school pulling out the transmission with my hair rolling around in kitty litter and transmission fluid.
Soon after I repaired the clutch I headed up to Rexburg for College. I had been there for a couple of weeks when my car started smoking. I quickly learned that my car another problem. Apparently, radiator fluid was leaking into the motor. Everywhere I drove, the car blasted out white smoke like a Boeing 747 at 40,000 feet. The smoke was so thick that it blocked all visibility in both lanes of traffic. Since I didn’t have any money to fix it, this was how I drove to school every day. You can imagine all the girls checking me out as I drove around in my smoking fish tank with my treble stereo blasting Hootie and the Blowfish. That car was a chick magnet. Only it repelled girls rather than attracting them.
