Probaditas de Morelia

Is it the secret dream of every middle-class, suburban boy to some day have his own hoopty ride? For a brief moment I was living the dream. It pains me to write this now but that's how these things go. I was the official driver, though not owner, of an '88 Chrysler that was a bona fide hoopty. It was surprisingly big for a 2-door, didn't go fast, and wasn't quiet or discreet about anything. We had but a short while to get to know each other though I do feel I can say with confidence that groaning and hissing were high on its list of favorite activites. 18 years may not sound like much, but in Mexico time is not kind to mechanical beasts of burden.

This car, this big hulking mass, couldn't have been more different from my Jetta back home, but it did have a certain charm that took me completely by surprise. I was, in fact, quite smitten with my coche azul. Maybe it was the whoosh of the engine, barely audible over all the creaking, as I accelerated through the gears. Or maybe it was the industrial-strength power steering that made navigating at slow speeds an effortless dream. Or perhaps the simple, odd fact that it came with half a fishing pole and a pair of jean cut-offs in the trunk. But it was probably just my inner child finally driving that long lost, great American car that was the favorite companion of every cool rebel in every great movie from the 80's.

I figured it was only a matter of time before it left me stranded somewhere – the cause of a major traffic jam and the recipient of a slew of inventive curses involving donkeys and a dozen spanish words that never made it into any textbook. But I didn't care. I couldn't resist the siren song of my blue, creaky, hoopty ride.

But alas, it was not to be. Sadly, there was no dramatic blow up, no curses uttered, just a flashing "check oil" light, a cursory examination of the engine area, and the depressing conclusion that the engine was "loose" and spewing oil everywhere. Coche azul's owner gave me the bad news. "You best not drive her anymore. Well, not without a new engine or a complete overhaul," he laughed. I didn't cry. After all, we barely new each other, this car and I. But I thought we would have more time. I never imagined the end would come so quickly. It hurt. I cracked some jokes and he smiled, an understanding twinkle in his eye. He had also loved this car despite its many faults and could hear my pain through the gallows humor. I collected my glasses and a tape and gave him back the keys with a shrug. We had a good run while it lasted. What more can you hope for from a creaky old hoopty?