It’s Just a Car

You get a nice December holiday bonus, so you pay cash for a used car with only 50,000 miles. One with AC and a sunroof. You’d rather save the money, but your wife’s been driving a sauna on wheels for three years, shuttling four children to and from school. The whole family is thrilled. Even the radio works. For seven short months you feel like a minor king. Then one day while you’re at work your wife texts you. “The car is dead. Puttered out while I was in the middle of driving it. The red engine light is on.”

In that moment you know that the entire system is rigged against you. Which system? Every system. There are no lucky breaks. Everyone who says otherwise is lying. In some dark, Dave-Ramsey-less corner of your mind, you consider the inconsiderable: Maybe it’s time to get a car payment. You immediately feel like a different person for just having that thought.  

“I’ve called the dealership six times. Nobody’s picking up. I’m on the side of the road waiting for a tow truck.” Your wife texts again. 

Damn Henry Ford.

The only thing you know to do is open your phone and ask your AI assistant whether it’s smarter to pull out principal from your ROTH IRA for a brand new car or get a car payment. While it’s thinking, someone at work walks by and asks, “Did you hear about Chris Evert?” 

“No, what happened?” 

“Her ovarian cancer’s back for the third time. It doesn’t look good.” 

When you close your eyes to say a silent prayer for Chrissy, you see that perfect two-handed backhand.

“God, that’s terrible.”

Without reading the answer from your AI assistant, you text your wife back. “We’ll figure it out. It’s just a car.”