Must be a good car, right? Right! RIGHT?
This is not a political post, any resemblance to this government, the last vote you cast, or the one before that, is purely coincidental
Your old car is rusty and has more scratches than paint, in some ways it’s scratch coloured, with paint marks? It runs okay, but it’s old, and change must be a good thing, you figure, as you trudge over to the nearby dealership.
The sales guy has an overbearing shiny moustache and a Mickey Mouse power tie, he smiles too much and compliments your jawline (you’re pretty certain you never had one, but that’s a minor detail that’s easy to overlook). He points out a car to you, “ It’s the best model ever, forget what’s under that hood, it’s all good”, he pauses to give you time to marvel at that practiced rhyme, “the colour changes depending on your mood and the time of the year”.
He doesn’t really tell you much else, about its engine, it’s safety features or “kitna deti hai”, but he points out how shiny it is, and reminds you about your jawline, so you forget to ask much else, and then suddenly, DHAMAAAAALDOOBIMMMM, he has all your money, and the car is in your garage.
It doesn’t start most times, but you blame the way you turned the key. It spits and coughs and sputters, leaving behind a hanselesque trail of black tar from its exhaust, but you blame the fuel and the roads. The windshields remind you of your grandmother’s glasses, thick and opaque, cul-de-bouteille, as no one says in French (loosely translates to bottle buttocks), and you can’t really tell where you’re heading, but you blame the weather. This one time, you pop open the hood, and all you see inside is a tiny monkey looking up at you guiltily, mid-chew, banana split sundae in one hand, and gripping a crank shaft lever with the other, but you blame your imagination and lack of sleep.
You know this car is a piece of junk, but your neighbour owns the same model, as does your entire neighbourhood, the ones who didn’t buy one were nudged into leaving. The last guy who didn’t own one was you, but that’s changed and now you belong. So each morning, over hot black coffee, neighbours discuss bad weather and potholes, and exchange compliments about how shiny the cars are.
Admitting your mistake is a lot harder than making do with a broken car, besides, you paid good money for it, and the Moustache had said you have Brad Pitt’s jawline?, so it must be a good car, right? Right! RIGHT?
