On Perspectively Buying a Car

Presently, I am at Junior's Coin Laundry and Tanning on Mayfield Road near Coventry. As I was transferring my dirty clothes into a quadruple load washer, I couldn't help but overhear a couple of guys behind me. Both of them, most likely Case Western students, were paging through those free Auto Mart catalogs one finds in the entryway of grocery stores. The kid in the white Under Armour top remarked of how he is going to buy a "nice" car.

His buddy made sure that this hypothetical car would arrive after he graduates and lands a job (probably in engineering).

White Under Armour confirmed this, said that once he gets himself started out (60K a year?), he's not dropping his money on a fancy TV or furniture or a family. His money is going to a car. He estimated $30 grand on his first car. A bit extravagant for me, but who am I to judge? He went on to say that this "nice" car would more than likely be a luxury model, like a Mercedes or a Volvo.

I have to admit that over the past few weeks, I have strongly considered buying a car. In particular, I am interested in the new Volkswagen Jetta SportWagon TDI. Since my bike was stolen a couple months ago, I have been spending a lot more time on the RTA, which is not a bad thing, mind you, but is taxing after a while. My rationale lies in the belief that I've earned a nice car (example: new clean diesel car) in not really driving the past two years.

It is interesting the duality in the theft of my car in '07 causing me to bike more, while the theft of my bike has me considering buying a car. Now, I still plan on buying a new bike -- in particular the Surly Long Haul Trucker, but I'm thinking that a vehicle could also suit me well. Especially the classy VW Jetta SportWagon TDI.

I asked some advice of my father, who really enjoyed the opportunity to sound off on his new car buying experiences. The two of us are apples of the same tree, and are likewise spendthrifts -- not necessarily misers, but not wont to throw our money (what little of it) around. We are financial scrutinizers, first and foremost, and not prone to action unless cornered or having made an informed decision after a long process of deliberation.

This morning, I had breakfast with Alex and she offered to take me to some dealerships this weekend. I could not help but feel that I was somehow selling out, that I was violating some set of ideals to which I had subscribed myself. When people ask me (and they tend to ask a lot) why I choose not to have a vehicle, I offer a three-part answer:

1. My last car never, ever worked right, then was stolen, which cost more money to bail of the impound than it was actually worth. With that in mind, I'm looking to save money. Honestly, with my last car, life was harder with it than without. (see: Shelia-5)
   
2. I wish to live green.
3. A car is not necessary in my day-to-day life, as I can take public transit to work and live in a neighborhood that has amenities such as the grocery within walking distance.

At this stage in my life, though, a vehicle is a luxury I can probably afford. Whether or not the vehicle I select is the VW Jetta TDI remains to be seen (40+ mpg is tempting, though). My old man suggested a Kia, as that would be more affordable than VW and offer comparable gas mileage. He also suggested for me to take my time, which was the highlight of our 40 minute conversation. Why would I rush into buying a car? Three out of the last four years, I have been vehicle-less, and a few more months without will not kill me.

So right now, I play a waiting game, as I come to terms with ending a very definitive stage of my live: those years when I did not have a car.

Commuting, part two

A few days ago, I signed up for a car share program, courtesy of City Wheels. Basically, I paid a one-time membership fee, an annual fee, and subsequently pay an hourly (or daily) rate to borrow the car. Gas and insurance are covered. Said vehicle could either be a Scion xB (the ‘B,’ I’m assuming, stands for Box) or a Toyota Prius. The Scion is located near the Red Line Station in University Circle. The Prius sits near the intersection of Euclid and Ford. The ignition key is kept inside the vehicle at all times -- car share members possess a little plastic chode called a ‘key fob.’ This device is held to a sensor attached to the windshield and the doors unlock automatically.

On Wednesday, I reserved the car for the whole day and went out to Mentor to see my special lady friend. She recently had a few teeth pulled and needed someone to lightly stroke her cheeks and provide comfort. Around 9:30, I received a call from the owner of City Wheels, saying that I had not yet picked up my key fob and that no one was going to be around the office that day. The business, as I came to understand, is mostly handled remotely: registration and reservations and the like are conducted online. The process is really quite simple. Luckily, the owner was in the area and could drop off the key fob at my apartment. He even gave me a ride down to the lot. By 10 a.m., I was on the freeway toward Mentor. That late in the morning, the roads were mostly empty and the ride was smooth and quick.

It was nice having the car for the day, even though my lady and I only used it to pick up a pizza. Still, she appreciated not having to cart my lame ass around. I tasted freedom. I tasted America – and just a tinge of socialism sprinkled on top. I tasted pizza.

Only problem was, I had to return the next morning by 8. Someone else had reserved the car at 8:15. I assumed that hitting the road by 7:15 would give me plenty of time to make it back to University Circle. I stopped at Sheetz to refuel, which is covered by a credit card in the car. Then I braved rush hour traffic on the Expressway for a good 40 minutes. I haven't owned a car for a year and even when I had one I used it sparingly -- mainly because the thing was busted most of the time (refer to: shelia-5). Rush hour is something I have never really experienced, or experienced so seldom as to find it rather novel. That is, I found it interesting for about 15 seconds. Then all the stopping and going made me angry and I became nervous that I would not be able to return the car in time and I drank coffee like a fiend.
I made it back to the lot in University Circle at 8:02. The tank was full and the inside would be warm for the next person. But the stress of a rush hour commute only reaffirmed for me why I don't own a car. And it makes me thankful that I live in an area with reliable public transportation. The car share program is just an extension of the public transit system. The option is there if I need it, and that is comfort enough.

Free Ride

There’s always an allure with free stuff. You’re more inclined to take something given to you than spend money on it. This is especially the case with stuff you don’t really need. I’m of the belief that once your basic needs are met, like food and shelter, you can branch out a bit, and don’t necessarily have to invest every nickel and dime into new stuff. You spend your time on shared experience, as opposed to just spending your money on random crap. I’ve come to rely upon benevolence as a means to keep me alive. Likewise, I am rather liberal with my stuff and try to give as much as I get.

And I know a lot people say that nothing comes for free. That there are always costs, and, most of the time, they outweigh the returns. These people are probably right, but I think it’s all a matter of perspective. A little optimism goes a long way.

This is a little story about me trying my damnest to keep the costs of a free car on par with the returns.

A little over a year ago, my grandparents asked if I would like to have their 1987 Chevrolet Celebrity. I had, during my college career, grown accustomed to a carless (read: careless) lifestyle, relying on bicycle, legs, and friends to help me reach Point B. I had even become idealistic over that span, and would frequently decry -- from the backseat -- the use of vehicular travel. However, when presented with a free car, I tossed all that idealism out the window. I’m assuming it landed at the feet of a Native American, who shed a stoic tear. But, then again, that’s an assumption, as I was moving at 70 mph at the time. I tend to only look back at pedestrians after having soaked them with puddle water.

During winter break of my senior year of college, I made the trip to my grandparents’ house in Pittsburgh to claim this free ride. It wasn’t the prettiest site—the rust infection was in its infancy, but still rather apparent; two horizontal gashes ran along both sides of the car, as if the previous owner had wedged it between two concrete pylons or, more realistically, two Hummers in the mall parking lot; and the bumpers sat rather askew, probably as a result of another unfortunate run-in with a pilaster or an H2. But still, it was a car. It was free. And, according to the vanity plate, it was a lady -- the Shelia-5. I couldn’t help but wonder at the whereabouts of Shelias 1 through 4.

My Pap expressed a heaping amount of sadness at having to part with his gem. He had bought it used for a song in the early ‘90s, and had kept up on it religiously. He apparently loved the thing, and, as we made our way to the title bureau, tried his best to guilt trip me into reconsidering. I almost did, save for the fact that I needed a ride back to Ohio, and taking this car was my only option.

At the title bureau, Pap asked me if I had the money to afford the insurance, as I sure as hell didn’t have the money to buy a car of my own. The title clerk looked up curiously, judging from my unkempt college appearance that I was destined for a life of poverty. I told them not to worry -- I would use student loans. The clerk looked at me sympathetically.

“I live off of the benevolence of others,” I said.

“Oh, honey, that’s wonderful.”

It was wonderful. I had fallen back into driving, though it took some time to grow accustomed to the mechanic issues. Take, for instance, the BATTERY light that flashed periodically when I applied the brakes. This began to surface about 6 weeks into my car ownership, and I -- quite mistakenly -- assumed that it was far too early for a problem. One night while taking me to the Circle K for scratch-off lottery tickets, Shelia became gripped by a violent seizure and died across three lanes of traffic. I panicked as a series of headlights bore down at me. I got out and pushed her back into the lot, corralling her into a parking spot. She would nest there for another week or so. Staying parked for extended periods of time became her favorite hobby from that point forward.

As opposed to dealing with the problem then and there, such as having it towed to a garage, I opted to have Shelia displaced to the carport of my apartment. Warm weather had moved into town, and I began walking places again. Plus, I didn’t like the idea of my car telling me what to do.

“If you want to play hard to get,” I said to her, “you can just stay there all summer.”

And she did, accruing an attractive layer dust to compliment the rust. Shelia’s ailment was rather tricky to diagnose. Originally, we thought she only needed a new alternator and a new battery. Simple, right? Wrong. At one point, I watched as the positive battery terminal glowed like a hot coal as a friend and I attempted to jump her back to life. Have it your way Shelia.

I left well enough alone.

But eventually, the lease on our apartment expired, and with it went my car’s free reign over the carport. I moved to Cleveland and left Shelia behind. I did not take action until my former landlord, Rillis Moneypenny, called to complain about the squatter taking up residence in the new tenant’s parking spot.

“Ryan, Rillis Moneypenny, I drove past the old apartment today. I see your car is still there. Looks like it hasn’t moved in some time. What’s it doing? If it’s not out of there by the end of the week, I’m going to have it removed.”

Moneypenny’s threat could have been a means to get rid of my car for good -- but I hesitated. For some reason, I was enamored with the idea of car ownership. Shelia had not moved for five months, and had regressed into a rusted-out jitney. But she had rusted out a special place in my heart. I had her towed to a Kent-based mechanic.

Even the repair process became a debacle, and Shelia sat in the garage for weeks. She was acting rather coy, and would not divulge her various ailments. Following several radically invasive surgeries, she was released and greeted me, upon her return, with an abrasively loud engine rumble. Apparently, her period of stasis had withered away the muffler and exhaust pipes and caused Shelia to sound, upon acceleration, like The Incredible Hulk.

As the mechanic backed her out of the garage, I had to comment, “Geez, I don’t remember her sounding this loud.”

The mechanic wiped his neck with an oily rag. “Yeah, there’s a lot of stuff wrong with this car. But let’s take it one step at a time. That’ll be 500 dollars.”

The free gift was becoming less and less economical. But, as I had just graduated from college, I assumed that I needed a car to get from interview to interview. Realistically, to be an adult, I needed a job. To find a job, I needed a car, right? Wrong. I needed a marketable major to find a job. As the only career opportunity that presented itself was a serving job around the corner from my new apartment, I left Shelia to once again relax curbside.

I felt a little guilty, passing her on the sidewalk each day on my way to work.

“I’m sorry, Shelia, I never meant for it to work out this way.”

Then, one day, she was gone.

There were no shards of glass littering the curb around her former home, no crowbar left in haste by the frantic thieves. Police Officer Shwartz of the CHPD arrived on the scene. She told me that the car had not been towed the night before. This left only one other option -- theft.

I was saddened at the loss, but my time with Shelia had been one of abuse and neglect. I couldn’t help but think that her new owners were appreciating her more than I had. I envisioned a utopian world, in which a homeless person had stolen my car, not only as a means to make it to job interviews on time (provided the car didn’t break down, which it had a habit of doing), but also to keep a roof over his or her head. The front bench seat was quite comfortable to sprawl out on. He or she could become more cultured and articulate by listening to my NPR presets on the stereo and slowly reenter society.

P.O. Shwartz said that stolen cars are usually taken on joy rides and turn up abandoned once they run out of gas.

I said that Shelia didn’t have much gas in her, but was confident the new owners would stop to fill her up on the way to getting the oil changed and wheels aligned.

Schwartz asked if there were any distinguishing marks on my car or something that would set it apart from other cars on the road.

“Um, it needs a new muffler, so it’s pretty loud. Like abrasively loud. If you just want to tell your peeps to keep an ear out for it, that’d be great too.”

“I’ll put that in the report, Mr. DiBiase.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, you might want to call your insurance company, too. Let them know about this theft.”

“Insurance, riiiiiiiiight. . .”

At three in the morning a few days later, I received a call from P.O. Shwartz. She informed me that they had found my car at a place called the Boneyard in Mayfield Heights. Assuming she meant the car had been found in an actual boneyard, I breathed a sigh of relief: Shelia really did take care of herself. Then came the realization that The Boneyard is actually an entertainment venue, much in the same vein as Dave & Busters. These guys really were on a joy ride. Huh.

Shwartz recited a laundry list of damage to the car. Somewhere near the bottom, she hit the new stuff.

"They punched the passenger door lock and stripped your steering column."

"Huh," I yawned, "sounds like a lot of work."

"Not really. Late model American cars are very easy to steal."

"Well go figure."

The intrepid police officer gave me directions to the Mayfield Heights PD and the impound lot where Shelia had been secured. I needed to procure the vehicle's title in order to receive a release form for the impound.

Upon arriving in Mayfield Heights, I told the officer behind the desk that said title lay in the glove box of said stolen car.

She, in turn, informed me that, "Keeping the title in the car is basically like writing a blank check for it."

I replied, "Maybe, subconsciously, that was the point."

She phoned the impound lot to see if the title could be located in the vehicle. It was, and following a gracious fax of the document in question, Shelia could be released back into society.

I asked the officer what would have happened had I neither reported the car stolen nor came back to claim it. She said that the vehicle would be filed as abandoned and after a few months, I would have been sent an invoice for towing/storage fees as well as criminal charges for having abandoned my vehicle. It seems the system is built to prevent easy disposal of your car. All this time, I had no idea.

The next afternoon, I reached the impound lot and after some failed negotiations, I provided $100 (for towing and storage fees) to have my car released. It felt like I was bailing Shelia out of jail. She hadn't been driven in six weeks, and during that span, she had behaved magnificently. Maybe I had trusted her a bit too much, for as soon as I turned my back, she was off gallivanting with a bunch of dirty crooks and owing money all over town. Who is left to pick up the pieces? Me.

Someone from the impound lot showed me how to start the car, as the column had been stripped and the key no longer worked.

"Just finger the little latch on the left hand side," the guy said, "and she starts right up."

"Well, I guess that’s one less step. To think, the last thing I had replaced was the starter.” I paused. “Do you know of any junk yards between here and Cleveland Heights?"

He shrugged.

I surveyed the flotsam left behind by the assailants: crushed cans of Colt-45, Icehouse bottlecaps, cigarette butts, empty boxes of Black & Milds. Nowhere amongst the vagrancy did I see a job application. My theory was voided. They had even changed my NPR presets to urban commercial stations. Hooligans!

Once again, Shelia came to rest at the side of street in Cleveland Heights. I put a CLUB on the steering wheel. Ironically, it had been under the front seat the entire time. And so Shelia sat again. For weeks, I was torn over what action to take. I could have attempted to fix the damage, but investing money in something you got for free kind of defeats the purpose. I scanned Craigslist for a homeless shelter in desperate need of a jalopy. No such luck.

In the end, I ended up taking her to a junkyard in Parma. As compensation, I was awarded $150. This sum came about after a round of intense bargaining.

“How much will you give me for it?” I asked.

“Uh, $125,” came the gravel-truck response.

“How about $150?”

“Um. . .okay.”

I felt bad receiving money for Shelia, as she was a free gift to me, and I, likewise would have liked to bestow her upon someone else. But given her current state, she would serve society much better from the confines of a Parma junkyard. Divvied up for parts, she could spread her benevolence all over Northeast Ohio. Maybe, even, the world. When a homeless man needs a new alternator for his stolen car, I want him to know that he can break into that Parma junkyard and steal one from my car. It’s okay, Len. You can do it.

Although I was a bit saddened to see the gate shut behind Shelia as she was driven into the yard, a great weight had lifted from my shoulders. Over the last year, she had proved to be more of an albatross than a peregrine falcon. It became too much work to maintain the gift. One problem after another. Now, that problem was gone. I glanced up at the sky, as the overcast parted for just a moment, allowing a ray of sunshine to descend upon the bustling Parma junkyard. I sucked in a lungful of healthy Cleveland air.

I turned to find a bus stop.

I was free.

Much Good for Me

Neighbors. Never trusted them. Thanks to Mr. Rodger’s Neighborhood, I grew up with an unrealistic view of the benevolent neighbor, anxious to help out. You help me, I’ll help you. Here’s some brownies, use my weedwacker. I’ll lend my goods and services in return for your goods and services. Bullshit. Never happened like that.

My neighborly distrust began with my first neighbor, Mrs. McAllister, an ageless raisin in the sun with severe arthritis. From my bedroom, I could look down on her in-ground pool as the membrane of algae grew to bright verdant hues while she, clad in a paisley housecoat, attempted to skim the water.

One summer, she asked me, at the age of ten, to cut her fairway-sized lawn and offered the use of her forward propulsion mower—one of those contraptions that yanks you around while threatening to chop your feet off.

“It’ll be fun!” she said, pinching my cheek with all five fingers. “The thing does all the work for you.”

The handle of said mower sat just below my chin, and after being dragged from one end of her yard to the other for 6 or 7 hours, I knocked on her front door and demanded payment for my services.

Maybe my expectations were too high, but I was a bit disappointed when her claw hammer hand presented me with a measly $10, divvied in five $2 bill increments. Since then, $2 bills have always proved to be bad luck for me. Vowing to never again be exploited for less than $2 an hour, I locked the front door and spent the rest of that summer watching Cartoon Network from the comfort of my unfinished basement. For the next few months, the answering machine surged with messages from Mrs. McAllister, gingerly asking me to come back and cut her grass.

“It’s almost up to my waist now, honey,” said the answering machine.

I rationalized that, because Mrs. McAllister stood at an elfin 4’10, her definition of ‘waist-high’ would really only be considered ‘knee-high’ by normal standards and thus, nothing really to fuss about.

Summer bore way to fall and her grass eventually stopped its growth at a healthy 3 feet. Her calls waned and eventually ceased, with the last few entreating me to come over and help with the unclogging of her commode, as her pincers were unable to gain the necessary torque on the handle of the plunger and send the blockage to its intended destination. I hunkered down in the basement for a long winter.

I approached each subsequent neighbor with an air of aloofness. Still, a neighborly relationship arose inevitably when I moved into my last college apartment, a two unit converted house on Main Street. I first came across Chung while sifting through mail in our communal bin. Multiple correspondences from the Aviation Students of America sat awaiting their reception from a ‘Chung Kao Yu.’ I had never met this ‘Chung,’ though I assumed he was Asian, if not for the namesake, but also the Mandarin exclamations audible from the hallway we shared. On multiple occasions, I considered breaking the silence to ask Chung for a cigarette, as the stench of stale tobacco constantly wafted under my door. But, like I said before, aloof.

One morning, a week or two after moving in, the windows of my car were smashed by an unknown assailant or assailants. I found the offending rock sitting on the front seat. I had never thought my car a target for vandalism—the ’87 Chevy sedan held no distinguishing marks, apart from the various rust holes and one ‘Go Pittsburgh’ magnetic decal left on the trunk by the previous owner. Said decal must have been the catalyst that drove the agitators to uncontrollable rage. I pictured a bunch of drunken Charlie Frye fans, bladders full of Natural Ice, taking a shortcut through my parking lot and finding this lone vestige of Pittsburgh spirit. They became possessed with that familiar Cleveland rage and were thusly capable of chucking thousands of bottles at NFL referees or a single rock at an unassuming late model sedan. It was like beating up an old lady with no purse. They might as well have punched Mrs. McAllister in the face. At least she had $2 bills.

Later that day, I returned to sweep away the millions of granules of broken glass and hang a reward sign which read: I Don’t Like to Use the Word ‘Heinous’ very often, but this __________ act of violence has left me no other choice. If you have any information about this broken glass incident, don’t hesitate to speak up. REWARD: one case of Natural Ice to whomever steps forward.

Behind me, I heard, “Can’t believe what happen to your car, man. I hear crash, look out window, see them run away.”

I knew him immediately: “Let me guess, you’re Chung?”

“Yeah, but most people call me Mike.”

“Why?”

“It’s my American name. Most people have trouble with Chung.”

“Are you kidding, man? ‘Everybody Wang Chung Tonight,’ come on!”

Chung let out a chuckle, “Yeah man, you know.”

I don’t mean to come off as bigoted or stereotypical, but Chung looked exactly like I thought he would: roughly 5 and a half feet tall, shaved head, air force bomber jacket, shoulders preeminently slouched forward and hands thrust in the pockets of his Dockers.

“So wait, uh, Chung,” I said. “You said you saw the people do this? When did it happen?”

“Yeah. Probably happen around 8:30. They stood out in the street.” He gestured toward the sidewalk roughly 100 feet behind my car. “I could not see them though.”

“8:30?” I asked. “It would have still been light out. You’re saying they did this in broad daylight from all the way in the street?”

Chung shrugged. “’S what I heard. Bad kids in neighborhood. Fuck with my mirror.”

I looked at Chung’s Toyota. The sideview mirror bore a jagged gash, as if it had lost a knife fight.

“Does this sort of thing happen often here?” I asked.

“Nah. But don’t park your car so close to building. I can’t watch your car when so close. Move over. Your car does no good for me here.”

I assumed this meant Chung had nothing better to do during the day than keep watch over the parking lot. Looking up at his bedroom window, I could see how the line of sight could be obscured from this position.

“Okay, Chung,” I said. “I’ll move the car, so long as it does some good for you.”

The next day, upon leaving for work, I saw that Chung had moved his car into the spot I had previously vacated, the one closest to the building. Huh, I thought, I guess that does more good for him.

My last semester began, and Chung appeared randomly in my Fundamental English Grammar class. I tried my best not to question his judgment in taking an upper division English class, but, I mean, come on, the guy was an aviation major. My concerns disappeared when Chung sat down beside me with the $150 Grammar text required for class. I had yet to purchase the expensive book. Suddenly, the benefits of being neighborly were realized. During that first class, Chung announced that he was from Taiwan, that Mandarin was his native tongue, and that he very much like to fly.

I accosted Chung after class, “Hey, Chung, can I borrow that book when you’re not using it?”

“Sure, man, just help me pass the class.”

As the tests were all take-home, I said I’d have no problem letting him copy off me if he would save me the money on a book.

He reiterated that he just wanted to pass the class.

Four weeks later, my fist, clenching the first Grammar test, resounded against the door to apartment #1. Chung had been absent from class the last week, and I visited with the veiled intention of seeing if he was all right. Really, I needed to use that book. The thumping bass to Justin Timberlake’s “SexyBack” reverberated against our common wall, as it had all semester long, usually between the hours of 3 and 5:30 in the morning. Shirtless, Chung answered the door. It appeared I had awoken him.

“Chung, you haven’t been in class all week, is everything okay?” I asked with as much concern as I could muster.

“Yeah, I fine. Have aviation test need study. Very much reading. Right now, I taking nap.”

“That’s cool. You know, we have a Grammar test that’s due tomorrow. I was wondering if I could borrow your book.”

“Oh, yeah, book.” He began laughing and rubbing his neck uncomfortably. “I lose book. I drop the class.”

“Wait, Chung? Drop the class? We had a deal. I need to use that book! Exchange, Chung, for goods and services! Haven’t you heard of capitalism? Aren’t you neighborly? When you can’t deliver the goods, the whole system crumbles!”

Now was probably not the time to engage in a socioeconomic discussion with a communist. Taiwan’s communist, right? I suppose it doesn’t matter.

“Yeah, I realize I don’t need class anyway,” Chung explained. “Does no good for me. Take easy one instead. I go back to nap. Good luck with grammar.” He laughed again.

“Goods and services!” I yelled, as Chung shut the door in my face.

That night, I stumbled through the exam and possessed neither the time nor the money to procure a new Grammar text. Instead, I was left to realize the sins of the dangling modifier on my own. I vowed never to speak with Chung again. He does no good for me.

For the rest of the semester, I stayed true to my vow and cringed each time I heard ‘SexyBack’ or caught a whiff Marlboros in the hallway. Does no good for me, Chung.

The semester came to an end, I graduated from college, every appliance in my apartment broke at once, and I began to pack my things for the big move from Kent to Cleveland. To help with the move, I enlisted my special lady friend to sort through my clothes with me. An hour or so into the job, the only clothes we had managed to sort were each others’, which sat in sporadic piles around the room. Chung’s gracious musical choice of ‘SexyBack’ one wall over provided a romantic ambience. We just couldn’t help ourselves. That is, until, I heard a cautious ‘Hallooo!’ from out in the kitchen.

The sound frightened my special lady, and she curled up underneath the comforter. Pulling up my jeans, I told her to hold tight and I would see about the commotion. I strolled into the kitchen with clumsiness of interrupted intimacy, or as I liked to call it, Quality Time. My maintenance guy, Big Dave, stood in the doorway to my bathroom. Inside, crouching with a plunger over the shower drain, was a plumber. I discerned his title—and I’m not trying to come off as bigoted or stereotypical here—by the gratuitous length of protruding ass crack.

Big Dave saw me and said, “Hey, we knocked for like five minutes but no one answered so we just came in.”

I rubbed the back of my neck uncomfortably, “Yeah, I was taking nap.”

“Well, this shower’s been clogged for a while, so I just thought we’d take care of it,” Dave said.

The drain emitted a digestive gurgle and spewed close to four gallons of matted, swampy hair clumps.

“Guess that’s the clog,” said Plumber.

“Jeez,” Big Dave said, “have you been shaving in the shower? That’s a lot of hair.”

I denied it vehemently, citing the trauma of a sink clog in my youth.

“Well, you and Mike share a drain,” Big Dave said, “maybe this is his fault.”

“Who the hell is Mike?” I asked. “Oh, you mean Chung, yeah. It could be his, I mean, I don’t know what type of bizarre bathing rituals those East Asians have, you know?”

“He’s a pilot, you know,” Big Dave said.

Does no good for me. “Just don’t ask him to borrow a Fundamental English Grammar book,” I said.

“Why would you do that?” Big Dave asked, “He’s from China.”

“It’s Taiwan and you’re absolutely right. Congratulations on the clog.”

I turned and went back to my room to continue with the sorting.

About an hour later, my lady friend and I were interrupted with another ‘Hallooo!’ I yelled an impassioned expletive and again replaced the comforter over her. She was a headstrong lady, but some things made her anxious.

The front door hung wide open with keys dangling from the knob. Hunched over the kitchen sink, my landlord, Chris Smiles, attempted to tighten the knobs on the faucet. The thing seemed to drip agelessly, and considering that I had seen Smiles a grand total of twice since I had moved in five months ago, I found his timing impeccable, given the circumstances.

“Is that you, Chris?” I asked, stumbling against the kitchen doorway.

Chris looked startled, “Oh, hi. I, uh, I knocked but no one answered so I just came in.”

“Yeah,” I said, a bit more irritated. “I was taking nap.”

“Huh. Well, I got a $300 water bill from this building last month. I thought it might be the faucet, but I don’t think this drip would cost that much. Have you heard water running?”

I thought back to that previous December, when, for three straight weeks, I could hear water perpetually running behind the wall in Chung’s apartment. Assuming it was some type of makeshift Chinese Zen ritual, White Noise, Feng Shui, I left well enough alone. But coupled with the recent hair clog, I wondered if Chung had embarked on a three-week cleansing/body shaving ritual, to commemorate (I don’t know) the ensuing Chinese New Year. What other holidays do they celebrate over there? And I’m not trying to come off as bigoted or stereotypical or anything.

I looked my landlord in the eyes, “No, can’t really think of anything like that.”

“Well, if you do, let me know," Smiles said. "In the meantime, try not to use your toilet too much. Let’s try to keep this bill down from now on.”

Regardless of my feelings for Chung, I wasn’t about to sell him out in favor of this tightwad.

As Smiles was leaving, Chung, Marlboro dangling from his mouth, stepped out of his apartment and casually into mine. He narrow eyes lit with surprise.

“You still live here? Wow, place look lot different.” He took the liberty of navigating between the boxes and milk crates I had stacked in the kitchen and walked into the living room. “Yeah. Haven’t seen you all semester. Can’t believe you leaving. I miss you.”

“Chung, I have to say, I’m going to miss you too. You’re almost done with school, right?”

“Yeah, one more semester. Then I go back to China. Become corporate pilot.”

“Why do you want to go back to China?” I asked. “Don’t you want to stay in the U.S.?”

He shook his head. “Nah. I get no respect here. Will never have power.” He thumped his chest, “I want to go place where I have power.”

I understood and maybe smiled a bit at the irony of going to China to achieve freedom. But, I guessed it would do much good for him. I wished him luck.

“Beside,” he said, “I make more money there than here. And I want most return for my work.”

“Goods and services,” I said.

“Yes, does much good for me.”

“Me too,” I nodded.

Chung, still pulling on his cigarette, turned and walked, as if he owned the place, into my bedroom. I couldn’t stop him.

“Yeah, place look lot different.” He startled, “Oh! You have naked girl in bed!” As if driven by habit, Chung dropped his Dockers and stood in plaid boxers.

“How much for service?”

He shut the door.

“Chung!” I yelled. “Goods and services! Goods and services! That’s not what I meant!”

Neighbors always try to take more than they give.

This essay was originally presented as a spoken-word performance piece for Chucklef*ck, Monday Night's Leading Alternative Comedy Show. For more info on the show, contact series organizer Carrie Callahan.

(Certain to Be Unfulfilled) Goals for Spring Break

Yes, I realize I am no longer in school, and thusly, have no Spring Break (or as I like to call it, Spring Brake). Still, we all need some leisure now and then. And it's like Peppermint always says, "Nay, what is life for but a list of certain to be unfulfilled goals?"

1. Go to Florida
2. a) Begin short story: "Untitled"
b) Begin novel: Love in the Time of Facebook
3. Work on The Postmodern Experience: Season II
(By the way, I'm doing that for you, Parsons.)
4. Go drinking with mum
5. Come into ownership of 1983 Buick LeSabre
6. Drive Jitney back to Ohio
7. Have Parsons wire me gas money in North Carolina
(As compensation for my work on The Postmodern Experience.)
8. Arrive 13 days late to Cleveland
9. Find that Shelia-5 has once again disappeared, this time for good
10. Discover that the problem really did take care of itself
11. Begin new life driving around with, you know, my home boys
12. Do taxes
13. Get married and start a wonderful family

One of the benefits of being out of school is the potential for an infinite Spring Break. Now it's off to bed for me; I've got work at 10:30 tomorrow morning.

(Unfulfilled) Goals Archive

The Shelia-5: RETURNED

She's back in my life again, sans body work, sans oil change, (still) sans muffler, sans gas. . .

At 3 in the morning on Monday, I received a phone call from an Officer Hatrick of the CHPD. He informed me that my car had been found at a place called The Boneyard in Mayfield Heights, roughly 10 miles away. Assuming that he meant the car had been found in an actual boneyard, I could not contain my glee at essentially having my car troubles worked out for me. O. Hatrick was quick to explain that The Boneyard is actually an entertainment venue much in the same vein of Dave & Busters. These car thieves really were on a joy ride. He then recited a laundry list of damage to the car. Somewhere near the bottom, he reached the affectations done by the assailant(s).

"They punched the passenger door lock and stripped your steering column," said Hatrick.

"Huh," I yawned, "sounds like a lot of work."

"Not really. Late model American cars are very easy to steal."

"Well go figure."

The intrepid police officer gave me directions to the Mayfield Heights PD and the impound lot where Shelia had been secured. I needed to procure the vehicle's title in order to receive a release form to give to the impound.

The next day, my roommate Ted graciously provided me a ride to the Mayfield Heights PD, where I informed the officer behind the desk that said title lay in the glove box of said stolen car.

She, in turn, informed me that, "Keeping the title in the car is basically writing a blank check for the thing."

I replied, "Maybe, subconsciously, that was the point."

She smiled and phoned the impound lot to see if the title could be located in the vehicle. It was, and following a gracious fax of the document in question, Ted and I made our way to the impound lot. The vehicle release form told a narrative of the status of my car. My eyes collected on verbiage like 'poor' (as in, 'condition') and 'no' (as in, 'muffler').

Before leaving the police office, I asked the officer what would have happened had I neither reported the car stolen nor came back to claim it. She said that the vehicle would be filed as abandoned and after a few months, I would have been sent an invoice for towing/storage fees as well as criminal charges for having abandoned my vehicle. It seems the system is built as a preventative measure against easy disposal of your car. All this time, I had no idea.

Ted and I reached the impound lot and after some failed negotiations, I provided $100 in full to have my car released. It felt like I was bailing Shelia out of the clink. She hadn't been driven in five weeks, and during that span, she had behaved magnificently. Maybe I had trusted her a bit too much, for as soon as I turned my back, she was off gallivanting with a bunch of dirty crooks and owing money all over town. Who is left to pick up the pieces? Me.

Someone from the impound lot showed me how to start the car, as the column had been stripped and the key no longer worked.



"Just finger the little latch on the left hand side," the guy said, "and she starts right up."

"To think, the last thing I had replaced on this thing was the starter," I said. "Do you know of any junk yards between here and Cleveland Heights?"

He did, but they were a bit out of the way, so Ted and I decided to head home directly. After we put some gas in Shelia, she started like a dream. The AM/FM radio was tuned to a rap station. The floor was littered with cigarette butts and empty cans of Colt 45 and Icehouse. Something told me Shelia had had the time of her life.

Later, I called my mom to inform her of the car's condition. She seemed taken aback when I told her the police had no suspects in the case.

-Do you guys have any promising leads on this thing?

--Leads, yeah. We just added three guys last week. They got us working in shifts. Haha! Leads!?

I was a bit disappointed at the lack of vagrancy left behind. Shelia has returned to her spot on the street. I have placed a CLUB (which, ironically, was under the front seat this whole time) across her steering wheel, to act as a deterrent in case the thieves should return and decide to do it all over again.

The albatross is back and she's squawking loudly. Does anyone know of a junk yard around here?

The Shelia-5: MIA

As I walked to work yesterday and passed the spot where my car normally sits, I noticed an odd vacancy. Someone had stolen my oft broken-down and underappreciated late '80s sedan. Shelia stuck out like a sore thumb in the more elitist realms of Cleveland Heights, and I think she may have been the target of a kidnapping. Or some kids decided to go on a joy ride and knew that an old Chevy would be easier to break into than the dozens of Passats that line the street.

Either way, she's gone. Immediately, I felt a great weight lift from my shoulders. With increasing frequency, Shelia has been described as an albatross. Over the year that she's been in my possession, she's been out of commission longer than she's been running. Oh well.

Shelia will be missed. . .but I'm sure she felt gratified to have been stolen.

Finally, someone appreciates me!

I was lighthearted with the cop who took my report. She said stolen vehicles usually turn up in parking lots with an empty tank of gas. I said I'd be surprised if it made it a full tank without breaking down. I also told her to keep an ear out, as the car's lack of muffler resulted in a very abrasive engine drone. She asked me if there was anything of value in the car.

--Uh, tape deck, some tapes, Credence tapes, uh, my briefcase.

-And what was in the briefcase?

--Papers, business papers, my business papers.

-And what business are you in, Mr. deBiase?

--I'm unemployed.

I'd like to think that Shelia, regardless of her situation, is in a better place. Maybe her new owners are cleaning her up, patching up those rust holes, replacing the muffler, vacuuming the velour, changing the oil. I only hope they leave the NPR presets on the AM/FM radio.

R.I.P
The Shelia-5
1987 - 2007
The albatross flies high once more.

The Last Stand in Kent

Sometime during my first week after moving to Cleveland Heights, I realized I probably needed a car to find a job. The answer to this conundrum did not exist in theory; rather, it required a trip back to Kent to fix my estranged ’87 Chevy Celebrity. My most recent exchange with The Shelia-5, as I named her (after the vanity plate that the previous owner had graced it with) resulted in a very inopportune stall across 3 lanes of traffic on Rt. 59 in Kent. Upon trying to restart the fickle broad, she refused, the coy bitch, with a series of unresponsive cranks.

“Oh my,” I remarked upon looking to my left at a series of headlights bearing down on me. My passenger Sarah, clutching our boxes of pizzas, shifted uneasily on the bench seat.

I then slipped Shelia into neutral, exited very drastically, and proceeded to push her back into the parking lot of Hungry Howie’s. But the cumbersome beast, she got away from me, hitting the down slope of the parking lot and taking on a momentum wholly her own. Luckily, Sarah was in complete awareness of the situation and—just as Shelia was about to careen into a parked car—leant over and hit the brakes.

Sarah was also kind enough to provide Shelia and me a free AAA tow back to my apartment on Main Street. There, the shitbox came to rest for another six weeks.

Over those six weeks, I graduated from college, lost my job, took a ten-day vacation, lost all direction in life, got regularly drunk/high, and moved to Cleveland. Somewhere in there, I lost track of my car. That is, until things began to shake out in the new digs. Maybe I thought the situation would take care of itself.

Alas, the Celebrity was still disheveled and abandoned in Kent, awaiting the benevolent hand of an experienced mechanic to get her back on the road again. So no more than two days after moving into my new pad in the Heights, I forced myself to venture back into Kent in an attempt to better adulticize or responsibilitize my life. I figured a working auto would be the first step in that process. The next, obviously, would be marriage.

Somehow, the trip to Kent provided both, with a brief sandwich of homeless/hopeless-ness. My final Kent adventure began on a Monday morning, following a gracious ride into town from one of my new roommates. My old Main Street apartment still needed a good cleaning, and I occupied myself with that until Sarah could come over with her free tow.

Hours later, she showed. Subsequently, my car, with one tire having gone completely flat from disuse, was tethered and displaced to Main Street Auto, a few hundred feet up the hill. There, the problem was to be diagnosed and a cure afforded. I use “afforded” lightly, as my ongoing unemployment severely limited that which I could actually “afford.”

Mike, the main mechanic, assured me that the problem could be remedied the very next day, probably by the evening. I figured that I could manage staying the night in Kent, and Sarah was so kind as to offer her place as a sort of bed/breakfast/hostel. That night, we dined on French bread pizza and entertained ourselves with Season I of Grey’s Anatomy, with which I had been heretofore unfamiliar but quickly and inexplicably became addicted to.

I slumbered that night to visions of McDreamy delicately cutting open Shelia’s hood and curing her cystic fibrosis.

I awoke at 11:30 the next morning and made my way back to my old apartment, stopping briefly in at Main Street Auto to find that they had yet to even glance at my car. I figured it was to be a long day. For the next couple hours of early afternoon, I sat in a lawn chair in my rather frigid and desolate former living room, searching ineffectually for jobs on a stolen wifi signal.

I decided to grab some stimulants and warmth from Susan’s Coffee and Tea up the street, so I departed momentarily. I spent the next 7 hours at the coffee shop, the price of a small house having saved me the indignity of stealing their wireless signal outright.

Sarah called me around 8, asked if I had heard any word from the garage, which, of course, I had not. She offered her place to me once more. We made a chicken casserole that night with meat I had found in the freezer at my apartment. We curled up on her sofa to more of Grey’s.

While at Susan’s the next day, I called Mike the Mechanic to see when my car would be done. As it turns out, Shelia had been quite the prude, and would not divulge the location of her ailment. Huh.

“We’ll call you when we figure it out; it’s definitely not the fuel pump.” Mike said. “We think it might be the computer. Or the crank shaft sensor.”

“Well at least that’s something,” I said, knowing full well I would be spending the night at Sarah’s again.

I fished some loose change out of my pocket to pay for a refill on my long-expended house blend. The cashier said I could have it for free. I glanced down at my apparel: the same discolored red hoodie I had been wearing for the last 2 days while essentially living at Susan’s. Huh.

Once again, Sarah picked me up in front of the coffee house right before it closed. She had eaten at Ruby Tuesdays earlier that night and was so kind as to offer me the leftovers. I don’t think I had eaten yet that day.

We had depleted our cache of Season I Grey’s episodes the night prior, so a trip to Family Video was in store to grab Season II. It seemed I couldn’t sleep without McDreamy.

After I fetched Sarah and myself a beer from the fridge, I realized we were basically married and had been for some time. I rationalized that we both stayed in it, you know, for the kids. I imagined that if I had stayed another night, we’d have had roast for dinner.

The next morning, after Sarah left for work and I did the last night’s dishes, I hopped on the horn to my roommate, to see if he was coming back through Kent that day. Luckily, he was, and I scheduled a pick-up at Susan’s for later that evening. I did not expect to hear from Mike the Mechanic, and I did not hear from him. I spent another full day at the coffee shop, plugging away at new job openings and posting comments on friends’ My Space pages.

“For Sale: MINT condition 1987 Chevrolet Celebrity. Silver. Maroon velour int. NEW computer, alternator, starter. $600 OBO. You pick up. Location: Main St. Auto, Kent, OH. Available early March 2009.”

My roommate came and got me around dusk and we went back to my old apartment to make off with the last of my belongings: hibachi grill, bulletin board, cleaning supplies. I threw the lawn chair away, as I was no longer in need of the makeshift home office. I ran into the landlord, who told me to leave the keys on the kitchen counter, as he would come by later to pick them up. I left them there, as instructed, along with January’s thrifty $50 prorated rent.

This was to be my Kent legacy—2 keys and $50. I left Kent jobless, carless, homeless. My roommate and I stopped by Sarah’s on the way home to say goodbye. We separated. I arrived home disillusioned, dirty, and exhausted, but with the implausible desire for a roast.