Driven by Desire
(Page 3 of 4)
September / October 2005
By Krista Bremer, The Sun
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His pride and joy is a 1986 Toyota Tercel. Its paint is chipped, its cracked vinyl upholstery is held together by duct tape, and remnants of bumper stickers from the '80s still cling pitifully to its rear end. Since I'm getting older and have a few dents in my own fender, I should take comfort in his display of loyalty. Instead, it annoys me. When we park this car amid a sea of Volvo wagons and SUVs at my daughter's preschool, I feel a burning shame.
According to the commercials, a new car comes with an overhaul to the buyers' self-esteem, but not for my husband. Looking at his reflection in the gleaming paint job, he would see only a materialistic sucker mired in unnecessary debt. In his mind, to value something that's old and flawed is a sign of integrity. In our consumer-driven society, which promises to erase all signs of age and decay for a price, it's also an act of defiance. His car has more than 200,000 miles on it. Its market value is irrelevant, because it will never be for sale. He is committed till the bitter end. When it could no longer exceed 50 miles an hour, he adjusted his driving route accordingly. When the air-conditioning died, he drove stoically through a steaming North Carolina summer. Not even an August heat wave that melted a videotape to the dashboard would make him consider a replacement.
When my husband talks about his car, his voice softens, as if he were talking about an old friend, one who came into his life long before I did. This friend shows up at our house, all rough and scraggly and full of stories about the past. He makes me uncomfortable, because he and my husband share a bond I cannot completely understand. And I know that I must never ask my husband to choose between the two of us -- because if I do, I will be a sorry, lonely woman.
But I was not asking him to give up his car. I wanted to replace mine. My husband listened carefully to my argument. He looked skeptical as I described my parking-lot shame, my power-window dreams, and the repetitive-stress injuries to my wrists. But he loves me and could feel the force of my desire. So instead of trying to talk me out of it, he agreed to begin shopping for a new car.
A couple of months later, we found ourselves in a vast used-car lot, scrutinizing a midsize sedan as if it were a work of art.
"Do you love it?" my husband asked me. "Because if you do, let's get it."
I walked around the car one more time, trying to determine whether this was the one that would banish my shame and quell my desire. I looked under the hood. I sat inside and examined the interior. It met all my criteria. But nothing about it -- not even the power windows -- made me feel anything close to love. All I felt was a growing awareness that I was going to get what I'd asked for -- and that it would cost me more money than I'd ever spent on a single purchase in my life.