Bumper to Bumper

by Doug DeMuro

  So we were sitting around the night before the crushing, talking about how it was going to go, and we started perusing the PT Cruiser’s title. On the back, there were dozens of reassignments. The shady guy I bought it from in turn bought it from some other shady used car dealer, who bought it from some other shady used car dealer, who bought it from some other shady used car dealer, who—despite being located in Delaware—used a notary stamp from Georgia. The whole thing is probably a who’s who of mid-Atlantic drug dealers. This theory is reinforced by the fact that the car had no license plate when I bought it, except for an expired temporary tag issued to a Pontiac G6. The whole transaction was a poster child for why you shouldn’t acquire anything on Craigslist, even if it’s brand new, never opened, and sitting on the curb in front of someone’s house for free.

  But as we turned over the title to the front, we learned the names of the PT Cruiser’s previous owners: a New Jersey couple named Mildred and Ronald. Better yet, we had Mildred and Ronald’s address, and their last name. Yes, that’s right: their last name. Their highly unusual last name that returned only one result when plugging it into Facebook: a guy in New Jersey named Ronald, who had a wife named Mildred.

  Bingo!

  So Peri and I huddled around the computer, and we excitedly clicked on the profile, and we discovered that Ronald is a pleasant-looking older guy with white hair, and a ponytail, and children, and grandchildren, and … the PT Cruiser, right there in his cover photo. That’s right: the very PT Cruiser we were about to crush the following afternoon. There it was, sitting there at the top of Grampa Ronald’s Facebook page.

  Now we were really interested. So we scrolled down for a few seconds in Ronald’s Facebook feed, and there it was: a post about the car.

  Our 2002 PT Cruiser! it began. And right then I knew: this guy formed some beautiful emotional connection with this car, and we were about to destroy his pride and joy for our own amusement. Excitement was starting to turn to guilt.

  Stacey learned to drive in this car and got her driver’s license in it while carrying our granddaughter, Adrienne. Adrienne’s first ride in a car was in that car with us.

  Oh God, I thought. Did the guy write this SPECIFICALLY FOR ME? Is he trying to make me CRY? Is he trying to make me feel GUILTY? Is he trying to STOP ME? And more importantly: Why the hell doesn’t Stacey have a car of her own?

  Sadly, we’ve outgrown it, and moved on to a minivan that we needed for the extra room and dependability.

  Wait, you’re telling me the PT Cruiser isn’t dependable? The one that sounds like Flight for Life is taking off every time it goes above 30 miles an hour? The one with more illumination from the warning lights in the gauge cluster than from the cloudy headlights? Whoa there, Ronald. Didn’t know you were a mechanic.

  Rather than sell it, we donated it to the Breast Cancer Research Center.

  Oh, son of a … You’ve got to be kidding.

  I hope it does someone else even half as much as it did for us, and I hope the donation helps out in some small way to the cause. They say every bit helps. :)

  The smiley face at the end really did it. Immediately, I started to feel the sadness, the guilt, the second-guessing. Am I really going to crush this old man’s beloved car? The first car his daughter ever drove? The car he used to bring his granddaughter home from the hospital? The car he donated to help breast cancer research? I’m going to crush this thing with a Hummer? Just for some silly YouTube video? As a joke? For the amusement of some people on the Internet I’ve never met?

  Yeah, sure, it was legally mine; the breast cancer charity probably sold it at auction, and then it bounced around used car lots for a couple months until I bought it. But after reading Ronald’s post, I started to feel really unsure of the whole thing. I was beginning to wonder if maybe we should just call it all off.

  Out of curiosity, we scrolled a little further. And that’s when I saw the first picture of Monica Lewinsky.

  As it turned out, Ronald wasn’t just a grandfather, and an older guy, and a proud PT Cruiser owner. Ronald was a conservative. And not the nice kind of conservative who cares about family, and God, and country, the kind you hope you have as a neighbor because he’ll fix your running toilet while you’re away on vacation and give you his garage code so you can borrow his hedge trimmers. Ronald was the kind of conservative who sits down on a city bus and loudly announces that Barack Obama is a Muslim from Africa who was elected by “the Jews.”

  The Monica Lewinsky picture, as it turned out, was an image of Monica next to the words MONICA 2016 — I GOT THE JOB DONE WHEN HILLARY COULDN’T. Ronald had proudly shared this photo, along with several other articles from right-wing news sources (actually amateur WordPress blogs) that referred to Hillary Clinton as the anti-Christ. But my personal favorite post Ronald shared was an image of a woman getting attacked, along with the following caption:

  LIBERAL ANTI-RAPE TIPS: Urinate on yourself to ruin your rapist’s mood.

  CONSERVATIVE ANTI-RAPE TIPS: Pull out a Glock and make the rapist piss himself.

  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that’s right: good ol’ Grampa Ronald was in the business of giving out rape prevention tips. And in his mind, the liberals were telling women that the best way to prevent a rape is to pee on yourself in hopes that the rapist will run away in disgust. Ronald, the pleasant-looking old guy. Ronald, the supporter of breast cancer charities. Ronald, the crusader for women’s rights.

  Needless to say, my mind was entirely clear of guilty thoughts about Ronald the next day, as I sat behind the wheel of my giant yellow Hummer and caved in the PT Cruiser’s roof.

  How the Carfax App Changed My Voting Behavior

  Generally speaking, I do not consider myself to be a very politically active person. For example: If you asked me to name the greatest presidential speech of all time, it would not be “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself,” or “Ask not what your country can do for you.” It would be the time Bill Pullman stood on that Humvee and told Will Smith to kill all the aliens.

  That was a great message. For years, I have written to the president, and my governor, and my senator, and my congressman, asking for a similar “kill the aliens” speech, but they have continually failed me (and the rest of the nation). The only thing I have gotten out of my letter-writing campaign is jury duty a couple of times.

  But if there is one sole thing I’m passionate about when it comes to our political process, it’s my immense hatred for congresspersons (Congresspeople? Congresshumans!) who have been in office forever. You know what I’m talking about: there are members of Congress who have been there so long that they are still referring to Asian people as “Orientals.”

  If you have ever lived in a district that’s solidly Republican or Democrat, you know exactly what I mean. When I grew up in Denver, Colorado, my representative was a Democrat named Diana DeGette who had been in office since before the invention of the electric light bulb. Her seat was so safe that sometimes she ran completely unopposed. When she was opposed, what would happen is, the Republican challenger would put up this nominal fight, and his entire campaign would consist of having lunch at some organization like the Denver Association for Lawn Maintenance, where he would promise to go to Washington and fight hard for the sprinkler head industry. Then he would put up a couple of yard signs that would contain several misspellings, even though they were checked over by his entire campaign staff, which included a) his wife, and b) an intern named Trent. And then, at approximately 9:07 a.m. on Election Day, he would call Diana DeGette and concede the race.

  So then I moved to Atlanta, Georgia, where we were represented by a guy named John Lewis. Now, by all accounts, John Lewis is an excellent man: a humble, thoughtful, dedicated congresshuman who also happened to be a strong, admirable leader in the civil rights movement. But I didn’t like him, because his time in elected office predates the invention of the written word. Seriously: when John Lewis entered Congress, it was eleven guys sitting in a cave
trying to figure out what to do about the tides.

  So now I am in Philadelphia, where it’s the same story once again: my current representative is a man named Bob Brady, whose time in Congress precedes the arrival of the sun. In fact, I am quite certain that if you go back to the very beginning of the time, Adam and Eve were not alone on this earth. It was Adam and Eve, plus Diana DeGette, John Lewis, and Bob Brady, all taking a quorum vote about whether to eat fruit from the forbidden tree.

  The thing that upsets me so much about these long-term congresshumans is not their voting records, or their political stances, or their views on various issues. It’s that year after year, the American people complain so adamantly about Congress, and about how bad Congress is, and about how Congress can’t get anything done, and then they continue to elect the same people to Congress. What I have learned is that everyone seems to feel that Congress is awful, but their own personal congressperson is great, and so they keep voting for the same person year after year, decade after decade. And so we have this deadlocked congress that cannot agree on anything beyond the fact that July 9 should be National Turnip Awareness Day.

  It’s gotten to the point now where the American people now will not vote against their congresshuman, almost completely regardless of what that person does. Congress shut down the entire federal government for several days in 2013, and we still re-elected something like 70 percent of these people. I have started to believe that my congressperson could drunkenly start burglarizing his constituents’ homes late at night, and they would wake up and greet him in the kitchen with a glass of water and a campaign donation.

  So on principle, I have started voting against these people. When I was in Atlanta, I voted against John Lewis once, and then I voted against John Lewis twice. It’s not that I didn’t like the guy’s politics. It’s just that I don’t think anyone deserves to be a congresshuman for life, and I especially don’t think that anyone deserves to be a congresshuman for multiple lives, including the lives of major celestial bodies.

  And when I moved to Philadelphia, I continued my stand. On my first-ever Philadelphia ballot, there it was: Bob Brady’s name, where it has been since the late Cretaceous Period. (Little-known fact: Bob Brady’s first-ever campaign manager was a diplodocus.) I voted against him, and I smiled as I did it. I was sooooo principled.

  Now, it is at this moment where I must take a slight break from the topic here and tell you about the Carfax app. For those of you who don’t know about the Carfax app, please allow me to enlighten you: this is the single greatest thing that has ever happened to our society. If I had to choose between the Carfax app and democracy, my first question would be: Will the new authoritarian government allow me to keep the Carfax app?

  Here’s how it works: for something like $25 per month, you can buy access to unlimited Carfax reports by license plate number. So what happens is, you type in a license plate number, and you get a full Carfax report that shows the history of the car wearing that license plate, and how many miles are on it, and what cities it’s been registered in, and how many owners it’s had, and how many accidents it’s had, and whether or not it was ever involved in a flood, or a fire, or if it’s been stolen. You can even tell what repair and maintenance work has been done if the owner’s mechanic reports that information to Carfax, as most do. You cannot find out anything about the owners of the car, like their name, or their address, or their driving record—but it gives you a lot of great information about the car.

  Now, the purpose of the Carfax app is for you to run Carfax reports on vehicles that you’re thinking about buying in order to make sure they’ve been well maintained, and they aren’t crashed, or flooded, or stolen. But what I’ve started doing is, I’ve started running Carfax reports on everything.

  I’ll be driving down the street and I’ll see an ‘80s Jaguar. Carfax says: Six owners. 212,000 miles. No accidents. Last oil change in December. Or I’ll see a guy from Alaska. Ten seconds later, I know: Registered in Anchorage. Previously lived in Oregon. Moved out here in May. Or I’ll see a mid-‘90s Accord. Turns out: Four thefts. Last one six months ago. Current owner since 2003. Or I’ll get cut off by some jerk, and I’ll pull up alongside him, and I’ll roll down my window, and I’ll yell: HEY ASSHOLE! GO BACK TO HEMPSTEAD, NEW YORK! And he’ll sit there in a daze, wondering a) how I could’ve ever possibly known he was from Hempstead, New York, and b) whether I am now going to murder his whole family.

  So a few months ago I was sitting around my house, bored, and playing with the Carfax app (“Let’s see what car has the license plate FERRARI in Arkansas”) when I came up with a bright idea: I would Carfax all of the congressional representatives in my home state, Pennsylvania, to see what they’re driving. Pennsylvania makes this very easy, because all U.S. Congress license plates follow the same format: the letters “USC” (for “U.S. Congress”) and their district number, either before or after the letters.

  And this brings us right back to good ol’ Bob Brady of District One, congressman since the dawn of time, person who I had just voted against in my principled stand against long-term congresshumans. “What is this dweeb driving?” I said to myself. “What kind of normal, boring, sad ol’ Kickback-Mobile is this lifer cruising around in? A Prius? A Volt? Some stupid SUV?”

  So I put “1-USC” into my Carfax app, and I waited.

  Prius Plug-In Hybrid? Ford Fusion Energi? Dodge Grand Caravan?

  Carfax thought for a second and thought and then it came back: “1-USC” is registered to a … 2011 Cadillac CTS-V.

  I was horrified. My congressman, who I’ve been so staunchly against, who I’ve been so openly opposing because he’s a “lifer,” is driving around in a 556-horsepower Cadillac? My congressman, whose opponent I voted for, who I proudly cast my symbolic vote against, is doing zero-to-sixty in 3.6 seconds?! My congressman, who I’ve been complaining is a no-good, do-nothing idiot, has a 6.2-liter supercharged V8?

  I felt like a globetrotting hunter who proudly displayed his latest catch on Instagram until a biologist showed up and told him he had killed the last remaining female member of a critically endangered species.

  But I wasn’t entirely convinced of this whole situation yet. After all: whenever I go down to Washington, D.C., and I walk around Capitol Hill, all the cars bearing U.S. Senate and U.S. Congress license plates are always the most dull, normal, nondescript American vehicles you can find, like a Ford Fusion, or a Chrysler 300M, or a Ford Freestyle, or a Jeep Grand Cherokee. Is my congressman really driving a CTS-V?!

  So I went online to find out his address—you can find out anyone’s address online nowadays, including the President’s—and I decided I would drive by his house in order to see if it was really true.

  And a few days later, there I was: sitting in my car, driving down my congressman’s street in order to see if he really owned a CTS-V. And there, parked in his driveway, bearing Pennsylvania “U.S. Congress” license plate number 1, was … a 2011 Cadillac CTS-V. My congressman, the guy who’s been in office since the Cretaceous Period, the guy who took a vote with Adam and Eve to determine whether or not to eat the fruit, is sitting behind the wheel of a supercharged Cadillac that’ll do 190 miles per hour.

  Needless to say, Bob Brady can now count on me as his newest supporter—and it’s all thanks to the Carfax app. “Let ‘em stay in office forever!” is my new motto. “As long as they drive cool cars.”

  Porsche 911 Turbo: The Worst Car Purchase of My Life

  Over the years, I have purchased more than twenty different vehicles. I’ve bought cars from friends and family members, from strangers and dealerships. I’ve bought local cars with full pre-purchase inspections and faraway cars with no inspection at all. I’ve bought German cars, and American cars, and British cars, and Japanese cars. And by far the worst experience I have ever had is the time I bought the Porsche 911 Turbo.

  I will start with one crucial piece of information: it was in Florida.

  I will also start with anothe
r crucial piece of information: it was being sold by one of Those Guys. Our society has not yet developed a better name for Those Guys, so I’ll give you a few tips on how to identify one.

  1. You’re buying a high-end sports car with many potential problems and issues, so you ask for the service records, which is something that every single legitimate automotive enthusiast keeps, even if he owns a Miata with so many miles that the interior looks like it’s been pillaged by a brown bear looking for food. But this guy says something like, “I know they’re around here somewhere.” He never finds them.

  2. You send an e-mail asking for a copy of the title and you ask how he’d like to be paid. He replies to the second question and forgets the first. When you press him on it, he doesn’t reply for six days. You send him two more e-mails. When he finally gets back to you, he says he was out of town on a vacation he planned six months ago, and he forgot to mention it.

  3. When you arrive to buy the car, hundreds of miles away, he decides he’s “changed his mind” about letting you take his license plate. You will now have to drive home without one.