My first car got wrecked because of a hit and run, so for a few months I had to drive a Buick Skyhawk my dad had. Not a Skylark, a Skyhawk. This car was so damn ghetto. It was light blue and the paint was almost completely rusted off the top.
My dad kept two big trash bags full of cans in the back seats, but never recycled them and he wouldn’t let me throw them out. The rattling of the cans made noise every time I made a turn. It was summer and the a/c and radio didn’t work. He also kept a stapler in the car to keep the roof from drooping and hitting your head. Unfortunately, staples don’t stick into the ceiling that well, so every time you got in the car you had to restaple it.
He would try to have normal conversations with me as he stapled the roof, “You going to see mom tonight? Ccchhh. cccchhh. cccchhh.” I said, “what are you doing?” He looked at me confused, “Stapling the roof, what’s it look like?”
I went to a friends party and parked two blocks away. I couldn’t have people see me stepping out of that whip. I ended up hooking up with someone and she asked for a ride home in the morning. I panicked, “you didn’t drive? Maybe someone else here can drive you home. Let me check.” She said, “you’re stupid...just give me a ride.”
We walked to the car for what seemed like an eternity. We finally got to it and she said, “this is your car?” Then I had to explain my situation, “this isn’t my normal car, it’s in the shop. Got into an accident, this guy...he hit me. My other car was way better. The cans in the back aren’t mine, I meant to recycle them, but my dad won’t let me. A/C doesn’t work, but the hot air feels good sometimes, as the coke cans rattled in the back seat like maracas. I pulled over after a few blocks. Almost forgot, if you could push the material from the roof up for a second I can staple it, so it stops hitting your head. You’ll have to staple your side though, I can’t reach it.”