This is a true story. The events herein transpired in the late fall of 2012.
So there I was, in the driver’s seat of Leo (named by an ex,) a 1996 LHS that I had purchased in January of 2011 for the princely sum of $1400. I really enjoyed my time with Leo, but I knew he had a dicky ticker, and that our time together would not be for much longer. I was merging onto I-90 West, heading to Kent after visiting family when Leo’s heart, a tired-but-still-strong 3.5 gave out after one last pull to redline. Thankfully, Leo had the courtesy to wait until the dangerous situation that necessitated the aforementioned pull to redline had passed, and gave up while cruising at 70. There was a thunk, which jerked the car, but Leo just kept on cruising at 70, albeit with an apoplectic cacophony that only metal can make while mingling with other bits of metal.
I decided to keep going until the next exit, which was about five miles ahead. With the exit in sight, I let off the throttle, and was immediately greeted by a stalled car. Thanks to our nation’s obsession with fast food, there was a McDonald’s right off of the exit into which I was able to manhandle the LHS safely. An hour and $80 dollars later, Leo was back in my mom’s driveway. Dejected, and not wanting to drive my Caprice wagon in the snow, I began the search for Leo’s successor.
Rather bizarrely, a good friend of mine had an unused 1995 LHS in the same ubiquitous shade of titanium pearl that all cars from the mid 90s seem to be painted. The ‘95 was, to be nice, a mess. Mechanically it was sound, aside from the leaky valve covers, but it looked sorry. So we made a deal: I would transfer all of Leo’s good bits (including four new tires, a hood that closed, and various trim pieces) onto the 1995, which I could use during my searching phase. Afterwards, I’d give it back to her. (In early 2014, she was able to sell it for $1200.)
I wanted a Subaru Outback wagon, preferably a first generation model that already had its head gaskets replaced. Knowledge in hand, I perused Craigslist, e-mailed owners of potential candidates, and searched the local places. I really didn’t find much local, aside from a silver example that had more bondo and spray paint than the automotive bodywork shelves at Wal Mart, and an apathetic owner who could not care less and wanted way too much. The car sat on his lot until he closed up shop. Who knows what ever came of it.
Discouraged from not hearing back to any e-mails, I broadened my search into so nearby areas. I found a nice white wagon in a town about an hour east of me, so I headed out in the snow and ice to check it out. When I got to the dealership, there was a father-son team looking it over; hood up, engine running. I waited, hoping they wouldn’t buy it, but of course they did; too bad, as it was a really nice example with only a bit of rust in the rear wheel arch.
I had just waited in the kind of cold only an Ohio winter can muster to watch as the only decent example of the car I wanted to buy drove off of the lot. Thoroughly disenchanted, I did my best sad Charlie Brown walk back to the ‘95 LHS and pointed its sails eastward towards home. Amazingly, when I got close to the eastern outskirts of Geneva, a town known as the birthplace of one R.E. Olds, I found not one, but two Outback wagons for sale at the old Oldsmobile dealership. Feeling lucky, I swung the LHS into the parking lot, jumped out, and immediately set out looking at the green one nearest me. Little did I know what I was getting myself into.
As I was purveying the green one, which was growing a list of imperfections quicker than I could count them, the owner of the dealership came over and introduced himself to me. He was a nice enough man, late fifties, grey hair, and rather short, at least in comparison to me. Let’s call him Bob, as honestly, I have erased his name from memory. We shook hands and he asked me how he could help; pointing to the Outbacks I quickly explained my situation and subsequent relief that I found some examples to look at locally. Bob offered to get the keys, which I gladly encouraged him to do, even though I was pretty confident that I wouldn’t be buying either based on their condition.
Bob comes back with the keys, and quickly sets to work unlocked and starting the green Outback. The battery struggles, but it happily comes to life, settling into a nice idle after a bit. There’s a check engine light on, but I still want to at least drive one of these damn things. Before I have a chance to ask for a test drive, Bob has a question for me. He looks at me as says, “Jordan, I say that there’s two types of people in this world: those who are saved, and those who are not. Which are you?” Uh-oh. Not to be deterred from my goal to drive an Outback if it kills me, I placate Bob and lie that I am saved. This of course delights Bob, who goes off on a diatribe about sinners, which somehow morphs into his firm belief that weed should be legalized. I should have excused myself then and there, but I foolishly wanted that test drive.
Bob stopped talking long enough for me to finally interject my plea to test drive the now fully warmed up Outback. Feeling slightly dejected that his thoughts on marijuana had been cut short. Bob looked at me with a colder smile and told me, “Jordan, are you going to buy this car?”
“Well,” I said, “I’d really like to drive it first, having never driven one.”
“Jordan, that’s nice n’ all, but I don’t just let people drive my cars if they’re not going to buy them today.”
At that point, I decided it was time to acquiesce to the Pleiades who clearly did not want me buying one of their own. I told Bob at that point that I was just starting to look, and was certainly not in a place to buy a car I barely know. He shuts the car off while lamenting the lack of a sale, when he asks me what I do. I should have lied, but I told him that I taught English as a Second Language for a university. In a momentary lack of judgment, I tell him that the students are from the Middle and Far East. Bob’s eyes light up, and he wants to know if I open my class each day with prayer.
“No Bob, I don’t. That’s illegal at a state university.”
“Ah, that’s a real shame. You have such a great opportunity to witness to those kids.”
“Jordan, you seem like a car guy. Let me show you what’s in the showroom inside.” I have a hard time sometimes saying no to people like this. I don’t know why, call it a morbid curiosity.
I should note at this point that his mechanic, who has been standing quietly in the background watching us, decides to follow us in. He’s a creepy fellow, decked out in drab mechanics clothes replete with a smirk befitting a man who just pooped himself and liked it. The showroom is filled with the kind of over-priced American cars I care little for, like a low-mileage C3 L82 Vette that somehow looked very tired. He did have a nice Buick of some sort, but it too looked tired. I feigned enthusiasm for his collection of misfit oldtimers, which only served to encourage him to show me more. Much to my chagrin, it turns out that all of the old service bays are filled with more cars. He hasn’t mentioned anything about religion for about 10 minutes, so I feel that I may as well check out the rest of the dealership, but only because it was an old Oldsmobile dealership.
We head back, poop-grin mechanic in tow. This dealership had to have at least five service bays, each of them separated from each other by walls of either Bob’s construction or someone else’s. Each bay was fitted with a different type a car: one had a beautiful old Mercedes, the next a vulgar, lifted Ramcharger. It was truly a bizarre assortment of cars. We make our way back up front, where Bob notices his family has arrived, and are in the office area doing something church-related.
“Outside’s a bad place for children” Bob declares to me. “My daughter brings the kids here and we’ll sometimes have service.” Bob’s on a roll now, lamenting to me again that I have a duty as a Christian man to start my classes with prayer, even if it’s illegal. “They need to hear of God’s love, Jordan. If you want to be a good Christian you need to start your class with prayer, to hell with the consequences!” “Will you do that, Jordan? Will you start your class with prayer?”
“Uh, I mean, I need my job” was the only thing I could stammer. Bob simply ignores my answer, as he has another question for me now.
“Jordan, does the Holy Spirit ever talk to you? Do you ever meditate to receive its message?
Poop-happy mechanic is staring at me, awaiting my answer, which simply did not exist. I got the sense that these questions from Bob were rhetorical in his mind, as he was eager to tell me how he loves to speak in tongues, and just how it was a gift from God to be able to speak in tongues. Of course he has to give me an example now, which was just about the creepiest thing I have ever had the displeasure to witness. I am truly crawling in my skin, looking for an out; any out would do at this point.
“Jordan, have you received communion?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to receive communion with me? Allow the Holy Spirit in! We could speak in tongues with each other!”
Scat mechanic likes this idea, as evidenced by his grin, but I had had enough. I rather forcefully excused myself, declining and making up some lie in the process that I must pick up dinner. He says goodbye, wishing me once again to open my classes with prayer. I ignore his plead, hopping into the LHS, and tearing out of there with all the speed it could muster.
I never did find an Outback to test drive or buy for that matter. It wasn’t until after I came home with my Grand Marquis that I thought to check my spam folder. It’s seems that EVERY Outback owner that I messaged had their replies go right to my spam.
Message received, Alcyone, Message received.
