A Tale of Two Horses

My first car was a 1989 Mustang. I named her Medusa because she was pure evil, an atrocious lemon that had an alternator that caught on fire repeatedly, among a multitude of other problems. I became adept at using a fire extinguisher and making small talk with tow-truck drivers. I also got good at duct-taping leaking hoses well enough to drive to the service station. Medusa was a bad, bad girl, and every time I took her to the mechanic, I think I could hear her laughing. She didn't even have a pretty face, given that I had been in a fender-bender early in my stewardship of her that would have cost too much to fix (Of course, I ended up spending more money than she was worth in repairs....). Medusa finally died en route to Santa Cruz from Oregon where I had been visiting my mother. Silly of me to think that Medusa would survive a long trip like that. Maybe I was trying to kill her once and for all. But she did have the last laugh, since I tried to get her fixed (I should have gotten out the kerosene instead) and the mechanic screwed me. I swore off cars made by Ford forever.

All this means that there was something a little funny about the fact that the rental car agency gave us a Mustang at the airport during our visit to the Bay Area. Having signed up for a tiny economobile, Todd and I thought it strange that the agent asked us if we would like a convertible at no extra charge. We told him no at first -- it is December in San Francisco, after all. When are we going to put the top down? But then the agent confessed his true intentions: They were all out of "regular cars" and had no choice but to upgrade us to something sporty. And they had 31 brand new convertibles in the garage.

The agent asked us what color of car we wanted (we chose silver, although the idea of red was tempting), and off we went to find our car. At this point, I hadn't yet figured out that we were getting a Mustang: We had been offered a "convertible" and handed keys that said Ford, but it wasn't coming together. I was busy hoping that whatever the car was, it wasn't so big that parking would be a nightmare. But as we walked through the garage, and I kept seeing people driving off in Mustangs, I started to realize what was going on. When I saw the car, I immediately flashed back to Medusa and her many blazes of glory. Hilarious.

Luckily, the new Mustang does not look like the ugly 1989 monster. In fact, it looks good. Too good. I liked it. Dammit, Ford! I hate you! I may have even skipped and giggled a bit when I saw it. Though, in my defense, I was tired. As a sidenote, an older couple (male-female -- no compulsory heterosexuality here!) was getting into their own Mustang beside us, and having a difficult time. They thought the trunk was too small for their gargantuan suitcases. They sighed and struggled and complained about how they ended up with a sportscar. The man even went to ask if they might get something else. Todd and I, on the other hand, pronounced the trunk spacious, threw in our tiny suitcases, and laughed to ourselves at this poor couple who apparently does not know how to pack light, and can't figure out that the back seat can also hold luggage.

We drove off in search of our hotel and I reflected on my years with Medusa. As I was doing so, I caught a glimpse of smoke out of the corner of my eye. For a split second I thought: Is the car on fire? I was in a Mustang, after all. Isn't that what they did? But no, it was just exhaust in the damp night. Obviously, I'm more deeply scarred than I thought. Thanks Medusa. And also, thanks to the Mustang du jour, who has provided something of a corrective emotional experience, with its shiny coat, good stereo, and responsive growl.

Ford is still on my shitlist, though.