My mom laughs at me because I am quick to boycott.
The whole thing started some decades ago when she took me to her favorite (at the time) ice cream stand. I attempted to order a chocolate shake with extra chocolate but received a less-than-chocolate beverage. It was as if, by asking for more chocolate, they spitefully made it with less.
‘I will never buy anything from there again,’ I stated as we drove away. She laughed. At the time. Until she realized I was serious. I refused to eat items from there, even when someone else paid. She got the message.
A note came in the mail indicating that the Galant had a recall. Something about brakes I believe it was. Anyway, it was a major component that made the car go or stop or something … not like a radio knob or power window motor.
It had to go.
Christopher laughed and I thought of Mom.
‘You don’t understand.’ I showed him the letter and he nodded patiently, as a person would when dealing with a child. Or a maniac.
Just as patiently he rode with me to the nearest Mitsubishi dealership, primarily because I’d bribed him with seafood from this place neither of us had patronized in quite some time that was on the way. We arrived at the dealership and I showed the letter to the salesperson, who directed us to the waiting area in the showroom.
Yep. In the showroom.
‘I just wanna look around,’ I said to Christopher. Looking around turned into dragging him to see a Montero. As we walked around it and cooed appropriately, the salesman returned and informed us that they would not have the part necessary to repair the offending widget that had caused the recall until Friday. I had to drive to the state capital that day and had no plans to have my car fall apart.
Of course it would have happened, just like that, in the middle of Rt. 295 while I was going 70 miles per hour.
I was having none of it. ‘How much will you give me to trade it in for this?’ I asked, pointing to the Montero and ignored the look of shock on Christopher’s face. Once the salesperson skipped off gleefully, I pleaded my case. In the end, we left the Galant and its dangerously faulty whatever it was and carefully navigated home in my new vehicle.
All was well, but the Montero was lonely. I passed a used car lot on my way to work every morning and one day I spotted the perfect mate.
I took Christopher to see it and he agreed. Magnificent. We took it for a test drive and sunk into the leather, smiling.
I marched into the sales office and asked about the price, again ignoring the horrified expression on Christopher’s face that got even worse when I told the proprietor that I had a job but no cash monies.
We drove off the lot with it.
Because the Suburban was large and blue, he was christened Big Blue. And the Montero was dubbed Tiny.
Every snowfall, we’d take one and then the other, each to a different and untouched parking lot to be the first to make donuts and turn on the four-wheel-drive.