The K-Car

The K-Car
a relatively short story (more like a pamphlet, really)
by Steve Holowac

Call me Stevie. I was in the market for a second automobile, and my boss, Myron (not his real name) just happened to have a Chrysler K-car that he would be willing to part with "if the price were right." How convenient. Before I tell you about the car, let me first introduce you to my boss and his wife. Myron and Cathy (not her real name) have each held Realtors’ licenses and have owned their own multi service real estate business for many years. Myron thrives on financial challenges. For fun, he can’t wait to read the new IRS tax laws each year as soon as they’re in print. (Note that I pay sticker price for everything and file the short form.)

I believe that Myron has been severely overworked, and over the years has become overwhelmed by all of the complex financial and accounting procedures that are the necessary evils in his chosen profession. At the same time, he was forced to co-mingle with subhuman real estate cut throats. (Can you imagine?)

A positive byproduct of these macabre mental tortures (due to Darwinian permutation or God, your choice) is his pure, unabashed and almost majestic understanding of the concept of Value. Although not a true sociopath in the clinical sense, enduring this masochistic existence has totally disabled Myron’s inborn ability to experience normal empathy and compassion. As a consolation, he has developed an exquisite financial calculator in his subconscious mind and automatically and instantaneously recognizes and segregates anything and everything into only two simple but discrete categories. These, I became to know as, "Losers" and "Moneymakers." Wow.

In his world a "Moneymaker" might be an undervalued house that could be purchased at a discount and then quickly "turned over" making a handy profit. Note that additional financial investment to the property should be avoided. A can of paint or a new toilet seat should suffice as a reasonable improvement prior to sale.

On the other hand, a typical family pet that provides no financial contribution but only liability in the form of food consumed, veterinarians’ bills, collars, leashes and doggie toys, would be considered a "Loser." (See "empathy and compassion" above.)

As we further discussed the K-car purchase, Myron showed patience and took time to explain a few things about business and finance that I still cannot fathom. I’ll recount one of his educational lectures as best I can. He disclosed that after he bought the K-car, he took a "straight line depreciation (?)" for four years, and then sold the car to his wife, Cathy. He mentioned that, through some type of phony corporate account, (can I say that?) money for the purchase was lent to her for what sounded to me like an exorbitant interest rate. The interest charged to her on the loan, however, was able to be "written off (?)" of something. Its only purpose was to leave "paper trails (?)" for the IRS (may I say that?). After another four years of depreciation, now taken on her behalf, the car was then sold back to Myron.

I later deduced that their well-thought out process was repeated over and over again for each of the many vehicles that they would purchase over the years, ad infinitum, until a decision was made to either sell the car to someone outside of the loop, or it fell apart. (I also discovered that neither mutual exclusivity, nor the common order of "which came first," comes to play in their decision making processes.)

Myron claims that by "juggling the books (?)" and having a little fun toying with the IRS, he has used this tried-and-true ruse to enjoy "three fold returns (?)" on many each of his initial vehicular investments. He said "This K-car is a moneymaker." I reasoned that I, too, could use a moneymaker so I gave him $600.00 for the car.

He followed me home from work a few days later to drop off the dark-red four door K-car that he pulled beside the house. A quick glance on my part revealed that there was only one wheel cover (old people read hub cap) (can I say that?) on the car. Myron smiled and said that "there were three wheel covers in the trunk." I could feel that this was to be one of my luckier days.
After supper, I went outside to park the Chrysler next to my other car, into its very own space.

Upon sitting down, I felt a few coil springs poking me in the butt through the red velour 60/40 seat. No big deal. Then I noticed the reek of stale tobacco. Stacked in the open ashtray was an overflowing pile of cigarette butts that Myron had courteously left for my enjoyment.

The inner surface of the windshield was heavily permeated with a sticky coating of tar, except for an irregularly shaped fifteen square inch area, that had a somewhat lighter patina. I applied my knowledge of forensics gleaned from C.S.I. Miami, and concluded that Myron must have occasionally used the back side of his hand to wipe clean this small region. Because the nearly clear portal happened to be in direct alignment with a normal driver’s left eye, its aid during rainy weather and nocturnal navigation became obvious.

I also noticed a dreadful looking but probably harmless stress crack that extended the full width of the windshield. Fortunately it hadn’t yet strayed from the blue tinted area and into the Pennsylvania Vehicle Inspection manual’s "visually acute" path.

I slid the ignition key into what I believed should be the appropriate slot, crossed my fingers (it’s not as tough as you think if you use your left hand while inserting the key with your right) and then rotated it with fortified confidence. The car fired up immediately, although with a peculiar vibrating rumble that emanated from somewhere underneath the vehicle.

Leaving the door open, I put my right foot on the brake and moved the shift lever from Park into Drive. As I had hoped, the car started to roll forward. I pressed harder on the brake pedal, but with no apparent effect. The car crept ahead toward a slight embankment leading down into my back yard. I tried to spin the wheel the other way to divert the car from the precipice, and it felt as though the power steering unit was filled with molasses. Unable to point the vehicle in a safe direction, halfway through my adrenalin rush, I slammed the shifting lever back into Park. The car lurched to a stop just short of the embankment. I shut off the motor and exited the vehicle. The rusted hinges creaked as I forced the driver’s door slowly closed.

The next day, at work, I asked Myron if he was aware that the brakes seemed a little iffy and the steering was pretty "tight." (How could he not have been aware?) He innocently replied that, because he knew that he’d be selling the car (eventually) maintenance was not at the top of his priority list. I liked his excuse so much that I’ve begun using it myself, instead of my Staple’s Easy Button.

Myron then explained that over the past few years he’d honed his slowdown procedure to anticipate any stops well in advance. He said that he would simply "coast toward stop signs, traffic lights or other vehicles." He also insisted that the car steered perfectly well, perhaps with just with a little more effort than I was used to. I explained that, since I hadn’t been afforded the same opportunity as he to gradually learn these idiosyncratic techniques, could he come out to the house and drive the car about two blocks to a local repair shop. He gladly obliged.

The next day, the repair shop guy called and asked if I was aware that the K-car needed new brakes. "Yes, I thought that it might.", I told him. He said that after he had pulled off all of the wheels, he noticed that the "pads had worn into the front rotors so badly that it was impossible to turn them down any further." He told me that I needed new rotors as well as pads. I said "O.K." The shop policy was to return all of the old parts to the customer as proof that substitution had actually taken place. He inquired if he might keep the left front rotor as an example to be used at the shop for training and display purposes. He had never actually seen a rotor that had become so worn out without falling off. "Sure," I said. Fortunately, the shop guy was able to salvage the rear drums by turning them down on his lathe. As you might have guessed, the rear brake shoes were worn down beyond the rivets.

Being depressed (and out of cash) I thought that I might cheer myself up, and have a little fun by testing the shop guy’s automotive I.Q. I asked if he’d noticed any other problems. Particularly in how the vehicle handled or maneuvered, I hinted. "Sure," he said. "The power steerin’ drive belt’s missin’, but replacin’ it won’t do you no good, mister. Looks to me like them steering box gears and the hydraulic pump is shot too. Any fool can see that them bent pulleys is probably where your trouble started. When’s the last time you had this car worked on, anyways?"

Three days later, my wife Donna (her real name) dropped me off at the shop and I hopped into the K-car and drove it to work. On the way in, I couldn’t help but notice that the car was swaying and bouncing along the highway, sort of like a tug boat pushing a coal barge through a Louisiana delta in moderately choppy water. Back at the shop, the repair guy told me that the shock absorbers were the "stock originals" that had come with the car, now 12 year old and showing 160,000 miles on the odometer. (I think Myron probably had it turned back.)

After an extremely precise inspection of one of the old shocks during a cigarette break at the shop, with the help of the repair guy, a scientific calculator and a "SnapOn" spring tension gauge, we ascertained that any small child could easily pump and jam the shiny metal connecting rods in and out of the shock body as quickly as his or her little hands could move, while experiencing no resistence whatsoever. Zero. (The repair guy thinks that even ice has a coefficient of friction somewhere near 0.006.) He proved his point and I left the car overnight to have all the shocks replaced.

Driving the car back and forth to work for about a week, I couldn’t get used to the vibration, buzzing and rumbling sounds that were seasoned with carbon monoxide flavored smoke. (Yes, I know you’re not supposed to be able to taste it.) Another visit to the shop proved that the whole exhaust system, headers through tail pipe, was completely rusted out. "Just replace everything." I said. "Along with the muffler and catalytic converter?", he asked. "I guess so.", I muttered with a forced smile.

The following week, I hosed and scraped most of the crud from the dull maroon carcass and then opened the trunk to retrieve the wheel covers. I tried to snap them into place, but was having a hard time. For some reason the clips just weren’t catching. I got out a rubber mallet and tapped away with no success. The next day at work, I queried Myron about the wheel covers in the trunk. He chuckled and quipped that, although he had told me that "there are wheel covers in the trunk," he wasn’t sure if they were actually for my particular car or not. It seems the covers were for 15" wheels. After I bought four new 14" wheel covers, the car looked quite slick.

A few months later, the car was due for a new Pennsylvania Vehicle Inspection Sticker. I figured while the car was in the shop anyway, I’d treat it to a lube, oil change and a new filter. This Wednesday improved only later in the day, after I bought four new tires and a replacement windshield. Over the years, I try to remember the good points. I don’t recall ever having a problem with either the blower fan or radio. Although the passenger’s window went down much too easily, the driver’s window only opened about 3 inches. How did he pay highway tolls?

I also remember day dreaming and fantasizing about leaving the car abandoned near a hospital entrance where some careless employee on a fifteen minute smoke break might absent mindedly flick his or her smouldering cigarette butt underneath the car and into the small puddle that would always form due to a pinhole leak in the . . .
Sorry, I digress.

Ultimately, the K-car was nickle and dimeing us so unmercifully that Donna and I decided that it would be cheaper to cut our losses and just give the car away to her niece, Sabrina (her real name). Good move! We would reminisce about the old K-car from time to time, but we were free at last from those horrendous repair bills!

Then one evening, Donna received a phone call from Sabrina who first reassured us that she was unhurt. Oh no. She then recounted her story of driving through the middle of town when, out of nowhere, some guy ran right through a red light and T-boned the K-car. OH NO!

Oh yes. Our old K-car was totaled. Our eyes swelled as we forced ourselves to hold back tears that poured uncontrollably down our cheeks as we cried hysterically with laughter. At last, we could finally flat bed that damned K-car to a junk yard. I guess I was never cut out to be a high finance moneymaker kind of guy.

The end

The footnote:
I contemplated changing the names to protect the innocent. Frankly, I had a difficult time determining just who the innocents were. Ironically, the only person in the story that I ultimately felt comfortable about characterizing as "innocent" was the repair shop guy, and I didn’t use his name anyway.