The truth about cars and Dodge

The truth is that I hate American cars. I've always hated American cars -- with one exception.

The Dodge Neon, when it came out, charmed me with its simple, nonthreatening "Hi." campaign. I was 13 or so at the time, so nonthreatening was the goal -- anything to offset the pure, hellish "people hate me" glaze over what, if I hadn't had such a troubled home life, would have been by far the worst, most awkward year of my life.

I compensated for my Dodge-love by hating the Ford Taurus with an equal enthusiasm. I hated the Taurus with an almost-spitting-when-they-passed level of vehemence. I hated them until my family gave up our light blue Dodge station wagon for a maroon Ford Taurus.

I decided that it would be too hypocritical, or too exhausting, to continue to hate a car that drove me around, so I decided to stop.

The Taurus didn't ever stop hating us, though. It broke at every possible opportunity. Fan belts broke, the brakes went, the oil needed changing every three blocks.

"Is it the transmission?" I would say as my mom spoke to my guidance counselor/amateur mechanic on the phone about the latest Fordian lapse in driveability. "Maybe it's the transmission."

"It's the transmission," she announced as she hung up the phone.

(I didn't know what I was talking about -- don't get me wrong. I'd just heard that a car's transmission is one of the most expensive things to get replaced, and I knew our car's vindictive personality. Cutting off its transmission to spite its face was just its style.)

The Taurus never got a name, of course. It was just "the car," like most cars. If I were to name it now, it might get something like "Mr. Sinister" or "Dr. Evil." You know, if those weren't already taken. By characters better than our car.

The trouble with a Taurus -- the trouble with most American cars, I feel -- is that it has no personality. It appears from the outside to have one, but its heart is empty.

I mean more than just "its engine doesn't run." I mean there's no catch in the generic, pandering-to-the-middle-class-crowd, royal-blue personality of Detroit cars, nothing to hook the soul. They don't have the luxury-class style of European cars or the ruthless efficiency of Japanese. They're just plain, down-home cars.

Which is fine in a pick-up truck. In fact, I'd be satisfied if all American-made cars were pick-ups. (Old dog and faithless woman included.)

When friend Debbie's tire blew out in the middle of Michigan highway, we had to get a donut tire on and drive him (Larry was the car's name) to the only nearby mechanic open past 5 p.m. on a Friday.

As I snapped black and white photos for the "Death of the Tire" photo essay that hung in our apartment senior year, I noticed a sign in the mechanic's shop, where an incense altar would have been if he were Buddhist. It was a poem that ended with the line "Thank the Lord for Fords." The gist of the poem was that Fords keep mechanics in business.

(Larry, however, was an Oldsmobile, and a car with real personality -- fuzzy seats and enough leg-room for a NBA lineup. He is sorely missed.)

Fords suck.

I've wanted, in my life, a Hum-vee (not these new-fangled grossmobiles; I was ahead of the trend, just like when I hated Ricky Martin before everyone else), a Dodge Neon, a Volvo, a BMW, a Volkswagon bus, a school bus. I would have accepted a Honda or Toyota without hesitation.

I don't know how I would have reacted to being given a Ford.

Betty is, of course, a Geo, which is a sort of Chevy -- but Betty is only the shell of an American car. Her heart is pure Corolla. In 1990, her model year, Geo Prizms got Toyota engines...which is why she's still running 18 years later.

My mom sold the Taurus, which had been sitting in her garage getting dustier and dustier for two years, last month, and I was able to finally revert to my hatred -- pure and unadulterated -- of Fords.

I got over my cute-is-in phase with the Neon a few years after its release. I hear they're not that great in mileage, and despite the proliferation of those "Hi" headlights thirteen years ago, I hardly ever see them on the streets today -- creating personal doubts as to their longevity.

Today in traffic a car cut me off. I glanced at its bumper as it pulled in front of me, knowing what I'd see -- but I was surprised. It wasn't a Ford, as I'd expected. It was a Pontiac Bonneville.

I hate them now, too.

Now I can hate them all.