Everyone has memories of their first new car, and I am no exception.
Dennis and I had recently relocated from Tucson back to Phoenix so he could attend Arizona State. We had moved in with Steve Weirauch, a cute bear of a man I’d met while in town for a job interview. (Until that time we’d been planning on simply getting a place of our own; ironically settling on an apartment complex that was about a quarter mile from where I ended up living before Ben and I moved to Denver). Steve had a huge townhouse and was looking for roommates, so we all thought it would be a great idea. It turned out that it wasn’t, and ultimately led to Dennis and I splitting up (three-ways can be very, very dangerous).
But I digress…
Steve had a brand new 1983 Toyota Celica. I’d wanted a Celica for years, and driving Steve’s on occasion only reinforced that desire. Unfortunately, they were out of my reach financially so a Corolla was about all I could afford from them at the time. Having reached the point that the truck absolutely, positively needed to go, and I needed reliable transportation even if it wasn’t going to be my dream car, I resigned myself to getting a mom-mobile. But one night I was walking through the dealer’s lot when something amazing caught my eye: a Corolla SR-5. This beast bore no resemblance to the standard Corolla; this car had Celica DNA written all over it.
The salesman told me they’d just started receiving them. I went for a test drive that night and immediately fell in love.
I went home, crunched numbers, determined that I could probably afford one without going broke, and returned the next day. The car I’d driven the night before had already been sold, but he had another in back. It was so new it still had the protective shields on the fenders and the entire interior was wrapped in plastic. This car had every available option (including a sunroof!) and was the exact color combination I wanted. It was $10,000. (Celicas were running around $15-16K.)
Getting the car was a long, drawn-out process that took the entire day—once again requiring my parents’ cosignatures. Since I was in Phoenix and they were now living in Tucson, Dennis and I drove down that night (in the new car!) to get the paperwork signed.
Dorothy, as she came to be known, was an awesome vehicle: excellent gas mileage, snappy performance, great handling, and just plain fun to drive. It wasn’t until Anderson came along that I’d bonded so fully with a vehicle. With only 12 miles on her odometer when I drove her off the lot, over the years she provided more than one late night adventure, took it in the ass when a drunk Corvette driver rear-ended her, and finally ferried me to San Francisco, where after repeated night-time break-ins, having a major recall repair performed, and suffering through the indignity of the City’s climate slowly eating away at her paint, I finally, sadly, sold her a few years later when her exhaust system started rusting through.
That white SR-5 is still the one car that appears most often in my dreams. In the dreams she had never been sold, but rather just put into storage somewhere. I slip back into the driver’s seat and she starts right up and we drive off.
And then I immediately start wondering what I’m going to do with two cars.
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