Man of the House: An essay for the DMV
The Little German passed her smog check the other day. Naturally, it’s a major source of pride in our family — what passing the bar exam would be to normal people. I think it was the personal essay portion of the smog test that put us over the top. The folks at the DMV said it was one of the finest personal essays they’d ever received.
Dear DMV,
I wanted to tell you a little bit about this car we’re having smogged today. It is as German as sauerkraut and bratwurst , which is the stink it emits after five minutes at highway speeds. In my bedroom, three rooms away, you can smell this car when it is sitting silent and cold in the garage at night. I find it strangely pleasurable. Like the ozone emitted by cheap electronic keyboards.
It is the cruddiest car anyone ever owned. The radio is possessed, the transmission produces the same thuddy sounds children make when they bound across wooden floors while chasing each other with brooms. In second gear, flames shoot out of the tailpipe like the lick of a DreamWorks dragon.
Those are the highlights, but there is so much more. This car was born in Munich, around the time a German chancellor was rallying the populace with his bubbly personality and can’t-miss vision for a better world.
After immigrating to the United States at a tender age, the Little German fell into the hands of a sound tech for NBC, a supremely annoying guy who thought he knew everything about everything. Basically, I bought this car just to shut him up.
You must know that feeling, for there are lots of people in this world you would pay just to go away. He was one of them. They are born almost daily. As you know, many of them grow up and go into state government.
Yet, not once have I regretted buying this car. Ever since I arrived in California, I’d always wanted a little convertible, so I looked and looked until I found one that made absolutely no practical sense at all. No trunk space. No cup holders. No room for the kids.
It was what you call “a midlife crisis” car, a nonsensical bag of bolts that looked to me at the time like the finest vehicle ever welded together in a hurry late on the Friday shift.
The sleek little car had the lines of Scarlett Johansson and the throaty growl of Zero Mostel roaring at Mel Brooks roaring back at Zero Mostel. The first time I started it, three ducks fell from the sky, assuming they’d been shot.
A lot of potential owners would’ve been put off by that kind of thing — rapid, flatulent backfires like the boom of nearby field artillery. For me, they just added to the mystique.
The Little German also came with several attractive options. Cruise control that wouldn’t cruise. Wipers that wouldn’t wipe.
“All that’s free,” the seller assured me.
“Can you throw in the horn that doesn’t work?” I asked.
“Done,” he said.
After bargaining hard like that, I paid him with a box of nonsequential $100 bills that he immediately used to buy an island where I could never find him, a good and savvy business decision. At that point, I never wanted to see him again, but there have been moments since then when I would’ve driven this thing through his living room window, just because.
Needless to say, it’s been a long and difficult life for the Little German. Aggravating the problem is the fact that it is the last coal-burning vehicle still on the road in the United States (including Pennsylvania).
So, if there’s any special consideration you can give it during this critical smog check, I’d really appreciate it. Like Gov. Brown, I see no reason — nor do I have the resources — to buy a new vehicle at this juncture.
We all must make sacrifices during difficult times, and the Little German remains mine.
Sincerely, Chris Erskine
