Free ride

I don’t know much about cars. But I know that when my car can be heard from 11 blocks away, it might be time to get it looked at.
I learned this lesson in college. I had the most sporting 1984 Toyota Corolla that you could imagine. It was my grandmother’s car before my possession, so you know it was practically a muscle car. Toward the end of its noble life, the Corolla could limp to a whopping top speed of about 35 mph. Also, the driver’s side window was permanently stuck halfway down (or halfway up, if you’re an optimist). But the most delightful part of my four-wheeled stud machine was the loud grinding sound that came from the engine. To give you an idea of how loud it was, my wife and I were dating at the time, and if I was going to pick her up at her apartment, she could simply keep a window open. When she heard my car coming, she would start getting ready. By the time I arrived, she had already snuck out of her apartment and headed out with her car, so that no one would pair her with my awful contraption.
I definitively knew something was wrong with my Corolla many moons ago. And for the several months I drove it like that, I confirmed to most people that, yes, I did realize it sounded like an incredibly loud blender was under my hood. When I finally had someone check out my car, I was informed that I had a cracked mount. When I was told this, I said, “Hmmmm. A mount, huh? And it’s cracked, you say?” I still have no idea what that means, but I have decided it is bad.
So using the knowledge I gained in college, I had a fairly good inkling that something might be wrong when my current car started sounding like a very loud creaking box spring. I have several friends who know more about cars than I do (for example, they know what spark plugs do). I asked them what they thought was wrong. Someone suggested it was the bushings. “Hmmmm,” I said. “The bushings, huh? Do you think they’re cracked?”
Eventually, I took my car in for repairs. The bushings were somehow involved, but the needed work included replacing arms. I assume my car has these.
The repairs, unfortunately, were not free that day, so I opted to park the Creakymobile in the driveway and borrow my mother-in-law’s car. The car is a fine car, a large luxury sedan. And, apparently, I don’t belong in a large, luxury sedan. Every time I step out of her car, I get strange looks from people, as though I have an older person bound and gagged in the backseat.
People I know have even remarked things such as, “What’s with the car?” and “Did you get a new car?” and “Do you have an older person bound and gagged in the backseat?” (My responses: Loaner; No; You saw nothing.)
Driving the great big boat of a car reminds me of when I got my driver’s license when I was 15, which is the single worst law ever put into effect anywhere. I base this on the scientific study of having been a 15-year-old. It would have been safer for me to unicycle over a Grand Canyon tight rope. For me personally, I had several things going against me:
1. I was not even 5 feet tall.
2. I looked like I was 8 years old, causing other drivers to be distracted as to why a third-grader was cruising around town.
3. My mother’s car was a Mercury Grand Marquis, which was about the size of a Taco Bell.
I guess I shouldn’t complain too much about my current ride. I mean, at least I have a car to get me from point A to point B. And, as soon as I get my car fixed, I will be able to park the Grand Marquis, V 2.0. Besides, I don’t want to drive it too much. Something might crack.