My child bride debuted her new car yesterday.
Though we paid in full last Thursday, and the saleswoman drove the car from the capital to our Hacienda on Saturday, it sat looking pretty in the carport, unmolested, till yesterday.
There had been a little difficulty with getting license plates.
Though my paisanos often drive with either no plates or expired ones, and the police pay little mind, we didn’t feel comfortable developing that bad habit.
We finally got plated and stickered around noon yesterday and, four hours later, she took off alone toward downtown and later the gym, her first solo jaunt ever in a car with automatic transmission, which had her a bit perplexed. Left foot does nothing?!
To say that she was happy is a colossal understatement. Think 7-year-old on Christmas morning. It’s only her second car ever, the first being identical to the 2000 Chevy we recently sold. We sold hers shortly after marrying because we did not need twin cars.
As is normal, she wants everybody to notice her stylish ride, to be as impressed with it as she is, which is to say monumentally impressed.
I can’t help thinking about my father’s remark back in 1956. Our family had just purchased a new green Plymouth Savoy, tail fins and all.
I was 12 and feeling like my bride feels today, jubilant.
I was over the moon, and as we drove down the street that first day, the old man looked over his shoulder at the excited boy in the back seat and said:
Son, nobody gives a damn about our new car but us.