An intelligent discussion of some critical issue, this is not.
However, if you suffer the headaches brought on by a crappy car, read on. If you don’t, good for you, read on anyway and you can poke fun at my little chassis, love her heart.
Christened “Nelly” by me and some friends, my ’87 burgundy Chevrolet Celebrity is on her last leg.
Hard times have befallen Nelly during my four years at ETSU.
A quick glance under her hood reveals a new battery, alternator, water pump, fan belt, power-steering system and some sort of pulley something-or-other.
She’s also the proud owner of a spanking new muffler after my sister exited the mall and discovered that the original had rusted off and was lying on the pavement.
In addition, Nelly’s “black cherry” paint is pitifully peeling in several places, and she bears the badges of having survived a teenage driver.
Her passenger side is scarred by key scratches some punk inflicted upon her in high school, and a couple of her hubcaps are severely bent from where I ran her into a curb or two. Oops.
The latest saga in the life of Nelly is her power steering.
One night last semester, she let out this low whine whenever I turned the wheel.
Praying and blinking back tears, I made it to campus and discovered that she was bleeding power-steering fluid. Profusely.
Trying not to weep, I called around for estimates and braced myself for the interaction with the tow-truck man. In my experience, they’re usually those scary, butt-crack dudes that make you feel 8 years old. “Well little lady, what seems to be the trouble,” they might ask with a toothless grin.
Almost six feet tall, I’m the very antithesis of a “little lady,” but what else can you do besides inwardly cringe, grit your teeth and force a tight smile?
After the excitement of the tow, came the discussion with the equally frightening mechanics at the garage. It was torturous.
At any rate, I painfully dished out money for a new power-steering system only to find that Nelly was still leaking fluid a month later. C’est la vie, I guess.
Two months and four bottles of power-steering fluid later, I’m now exceedingly quick at popping Nelly’s hood and giving her a refill.
Even my friends are impressed with my efficiency and think I have the makings of a pit crew member or something.
Despite all the headaches, Nelly has been good to me, and has always gotten me where I need to go. Granted, my teeth rattle around in my head because she shakes so violently when you take her above 60 mph, but I’ll miss her when she has retired to the junkyard.
I guess you could say that I’m ambivalent towards her. This simultaneous attraction and repulsion is, I think, what many people feel for their first car.
Those of you who have cruised in the two-tone hooptys, have duct-taped your door consoles in place, have flirted with the 250,000-mile mark and have pinned up the drooping ceiling cloth with golf tees know what I’m talking about.
There’s just something special about your first car, even if it is Pinto.

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