Thug Life

Recently, my husband forgot my car was parked behind his truck and a fender bender was the result. It wasn’t tragic or irreparable but to correct the damage meant my little SUV had to spend some time in the repairs department of the Honda dealership an hour away from our town. I wasn’t too concerned as our insurance policy promised to provide me with a rental car and according to Enterprise, it could be a Dodge Charger! A Charger! A souped-up, high octane, vroom-vroom, muscle car! I was so excited, I had all my afternoons already planned out! I could see myself letting the engine out and seeing how fast my rental could go on some deserted country road near the golf course. VRRRRROOOOOOMMMMM!!!!! So, there were no tears of resentment or sadness the morning my hubs drove my poor little wounded CRV to Lawley Honda Repair.

The call to my cell phone came around 10:00 while I was at school. Hubby was on his way home and was driving the rental. “Is it a Charger?” I asked breathlessly. “A Charger? No, it’s a minivan,” replied Bosco. I thought it was a joke. He is always trying to trick and tease me. “No, Jan, it’s a Dodge Caravan,” he said carefully. What came out of my mouth next was neither nice nor lady-like. A minivan? He told me it was so nice with leather interior and all the bells and whistles. It was a GRAND Caravan. No response from me except for, “A minivan?” He continued to try to convince me that this was a very nice car and no, I could not return it. He explained it was the LAST ONE ON THE LOT because Enterprise was short on vehicles. He made a terrible mistake by telling me about the customer ahead of him balked about driving a Ford Focus until he learned the only car left was the minivan. Of course, the man took the Focus. I would take the Focus over the minivan, too if I had been given a choice. Bosco drove it to school, exchanged it for his big ole diesel Ford 250 and I was left with the “uncool mobile.” My instructional assistant told me how she had been assigned a lovely Ford pick-up when her car was in the shop. She went on to say she wanted to buy one for herself and might do so this summer. She tried to be nice about the minivan (as I say it with a sneer) but agreed Enterprise was kinder to her than me. And as I heard over and over, it is just a car.

To be fair, I never really gave the car a chance. It was comfy and drove nicely, but I just could not get over driving something similar to what I drove when I hauled my kids and their gear to the moon and back all those years ago. I did the minivan mom thing until Meghan left for college and we bought an SUV. Heck, we even drove her and her plethora of shoes to New Mexico State University in a minivan. But now it was seventeen years later and I did not want to go backwards. This was no time for vehicular Back to the Future. And that car was a Delorean.

I wish I could say it grew on me, but it didn’t. There was just something wrong with it every time I drove it. It even began to look sinister. It was gun metal gray with black interior. It sat low, low, low to the pavement. I could picture it in “the hood” if Douglas was where street cred was born. And day by day, Lawley did not call to tell me my CRV was ready. It became inevitable that I would have to take the demon of my drive to Tucson for Christmas shopping with my bff, Judy.

On that fateful Saturday morning, Judy and I were chatting it up, cruising down Arizona Highway 80, just past Tombstone towards the Border Patrol check station. Things had gone well. We had a tank of gas and were ready to stimulate the economy and enjoy some holiday girl time. Like any other trip to Tucson, I pulled into the check station and answered the usual question. “Is there anyone else in the back of your car?” I was not ready for the Border Patrol agent to instruct me to pull over because the drug dog had “reacted” to our car. I pulled over and with my best sunshine smile and ready to help attitude looked at the agent like huh? Now there were three agents. One with a dog I knew to be a Malinois, the German Shepard like dog known for its vicious attack skills and jaws of steel, one who politely asked us to stand outside our car in the misting rain, and the other who looked like he had better things to do than stand there with us. We were asked where we lived and where were we going. I immediately told the agents that we lived in Douglas, were headed to Tucson for shopping and THIS WAS NOT MY CAR. I explained that my husband had backed into the front of my Honda CRV and this was a rental car from Enterprise. (Notice that I told everyone about Enterprise.) The canine corp walked around our car, went through our car, stuck its head in our bags and we were asked if we had any narcotics with us. I couldn’t see my expression but it had to be one of disbelief! No, we answered. He asked if we had any pain pills with us that might be “triggering” the dog. No, we both answered. I told the agent I had some Flonase and a melatonin in my bag. Judy confessed to a thyroid pill. Finally, the agent with the questions asked where we had rented the car and that I should let them know that the drug dog was “hitting” on the “stow and go” under the second row floor mat. Seeing we were confused and obviously not familiar with the car, the agent showed us the hidey hole some low-life had used to store their stash. The agent also said it was not uncommon for people to rent vehicles and to use meth, smoke marijuana, and transport illegal things then return them with residue to rental companies. You could have knocked me over with a feather or run me over with a minivan and I would not have been more shocked. They let us go and told me to notify Enterprise about the incident. And they very nicely showed me how to use the side doors on the key fob and showed me how to close the back door electronically. I guarantee you that I called Bosco before leaving the check station to tell him about our experience.

I wish I could say it got better with the thugmobile but it didn’t. Maybe it knew how I felt and Lord knows I didn’t try to hide my disgust with its past. Later that night at the Tucson Botanical Gardens Christmas Lights Festival, we returned to the minivan of shame and found a note on the windshield. I just knew someone had scratched it or it acted out on its own but the note said both sliding side doors were left open and security had closed it and locked it for us. Christmas presents were in it. Our suitcases were in it. My purse was in it. How this happened, I am not sure. It is possible that I accidentally squeezed the key fob in my jacket pocket which caused the doors to open as we were walking away but I just can’t help but wonder if it did this on its own. Luckily, all of stuff was there when we left and security made sure I knew this was a stupid thing to do.

The following week, Lawley finally called. I was so excited to return the demonic piece of steel to Enterprise that as I hurried out the door and opened the hatch to remove any personal items it dropped itself on top of my head. Metal to scalp. Shieking, I instantly went Joe Pesci and began unleashing a tirade of words and phrases that stopped my husband in his tracks. I believe I said it gave me one final Frank Underwood (F-U) before it left the family. When I finally calmed down, I drove the “no, I am not a Dodge Charger, I am a criminal vehicle” to Sierra Vista while Bosco followed in his steady, sturdy, Ford pick-up. And when we pulled into the parking lot of Enterprise, it was FULL of different available cars.

This is the type of story that inspires rappers.