A Whale's Vagina, Part 2: Car Trouble

Allow me, Dear Reader, to introduce a new and very special addition to my life.

Meet Carmen.

Carmen San Diego, that is.

Carmen is a 1997 Volkswagon Passat with 112,000 miles on her. She is also my new baby.

Don't we look cute together?

I bought Carmen for $3,000 -- including tax, tag and title -- on Thursday, after a week-long car search that left me physically, emotionally and spiritually broken.

My odyssey began the day BW and I ventured to National City, a truly grim shithole five miles Southwest of San Diego and famous for its appropriately named "Mile of Cars." The entire city consists of an an endless strip of used car dealerships.

BW tried to warn me what I'd be in for:

"This is not going to be fun," he said, as we pulled into the first lot, our eyes on a shiny blue VW Beetle parked out front.

But I was undaunted. True, I hadn't owned a car in 15 years and never actually shopped for one, but how hard could it be?

Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here.

"Hi," I said to that salesman as he slithered over to us under the roasting sun, a greasy trail behind him, "I'd like to see whatever you've got for under $4,000."

Without a word, he pointed to a large dumpster in the corner.

"Well, um, how about this blue Beetle here," I asked hopefully.

"Eighty-nine hundred," he grunted, picking his teeth with a rusty toothpick.

BW pulled me to the side. "That's not his final price," he said sotto voce. "Ask him for a test drive."

Ten minutes later, BW and the salesman were both holding on for dear life as I attempted to drive the Beetle -- which turned out to be a stick shift -- at 60 mph down Interstate 5. You may be surprised to learn, Dear Reader, that I'm no stranger to the stick. (Insert dirty joke here.) My first car was actually a manual Jeep Wrangler, and there was a time in my life when I was quite skilled at shifting gears.

Sadly, that time has passed.

Back at the dealership, as BW tried not to vomit, he told me I should make the salesman a low offer -- just to see if he'd bite.

"How about $5,500?" I asked.

This time, the salesman didn't even bother to point at the dumpster. He simply slithered away.

And so it went. Over the course of eight hours, we stopped at more than a dozen dealerships, test-driving some of the most decrepit automobiles I've ever seen. At one point, I was within inches of buying a 2001 White Chevy Lumina that sounded like a lawnmower and smelled like a dead body. For $6,500.

Towards the end of the day, we stopped by a dealership under a giant Saturn sign. (We had quickly learned that the signs in no way indicated the brand of cars found on the lot.) At first, a hugely overweight Mexican man named Paco was our guide, showing us, among other beauties, a shit-brown 1999 Chevy Monte Carlo with no air conditioning. For $5,999.

"Not really what I'm looking for," I told him.

Suddenly, the lot's boss stepped out from inside the dealership and, with a single motion of his hand, yanked Paco away. They disappeared for about 30 seconds, and then a new salesman walked out. This one was also Mexican, but in no way obese. In fact, he was lean and muscular with golden highlights and extremely tight jeans.

"Hello," he said, flashing us a gleaming white smile. "My name is Fernando. What can I put you in today?"

BW and I looked at each other. We knew immediately what was up: They were sending out the gay equivalent of a blonde, big-titted saleswoman to close the deal. Still, we appreciated the effort, especially because Fernando was the nicest thing we'd seen in National City all day.

Fernando really gave it his all -- at one point nearly selling me a 2005 Ford Focus which was actually in fantastic shape. For $8,999. After the day we had had, the Focus looked like a Lamborghini, and I was about ready to hand over my life savings if it meant getting the hell out of National City.

But at the last second, common sense prevailed: I can't spend $9 thousand bucks on car. I don't have a job.

Much to Fernando's chagrin, BW and I left National City Saturn without a tag or a title.

Thank God.

We ended our day as we had begun it: In a Beetle. This one was a '98 in multiple shades of yellow with 177,000 miles on it. But it ran well, and the bug-eyed salesman -- who looked a bit like cult leader Jim Jones and smelled strongly of urine -- seemed to think I could have it for under $5,000. He then got word from his manager that the car had no title and was probably stolen.

"OK," I said. "So how about "$4,000?"

Kool-Aid, anyone?

Jim Jones explained that the car was no longer, in fact, for sale. BW and I had to admit defeat and, after dining in National City's finest restaurant, Popeye's Chicken, we limped back to San Diego.

The next morning, after a healing night's sleep, I rethought my game plan. There was simply no way I could go back to National City. I'd ride around on a donkey before I'd return to the Mile of Cars. It then occurred to me that Craig's List, which had been such a valuable tool in selling my furniture, might just be the answer here.

Yes, I would find a car on Craig's List. And not just any car: I would find a Beetle -- one with automatic transmission.

BW was supportive, though he cautioned me that only women and flamingly gay men drive Beetles, and that if he were ever to borrow my car to drive into base, he'd have to tell his fellow officers that it was his girlfriend's car. Whatever -- close enough.

After 30 minutes of searching, I found a blue 2003 Beetle for $5999 (or best offer) almost identical to the one I had test-driven in National City. It belonged to a guy named Lalo in Chula Vista, and we became quick email pals. Lalo informed me that this car was fully loaded and well worth the price. He also agreed to drive it to North Park so I could test-drive it.

My Dream Car.

The next night, I did indeed drive Lalo's Beetle -- only to discover that the "check engine" light remained on at all times.

"Not a problem," said Lalo. "I'll take care of that."

After popping the hood, I also smelled burnt rubber. I don't know a lot about cars, but I know the engine isn't supposed to smell that way.

Lalo promised to have repairs made before turning the car over to me, but I was dubious. We parted ways, both of us disappointed.

The next morning, I again logged onto Craig's List. This time I refined my search, using "North Park" as one of the search terms. Instantly, I found four cars all under $5,000 and apparently in decent shape. I began copying down the phone numbers and email addresses for each. Suddenly, it hit me that they were all the same. This was a dealership. In North Park. Less than a mile from my home.

I walked. Nobody walks anywhere out here, but I figured I might as well get some exercise and explore my neighborhood a bit.

North Park is an interesting place. It reminds me of Hell's Kitchen when I first moved there 10 years ago. Parts of it are sketchy and run down; other parts are charming. A typical commercial street has a pawn shop next to a barber shop next to a thrift store next to a vegan restaurant next to a beauty supply place where hookers and trannies buy their wigs. It's up-and-coming and funky and artsy, and I kind of love it.

As I headed North on 30th Street, I spotted the dealership. In big blue letters, it read:

Adams Imports

I took this to be a good omen.

Adams Imports in no way resembled any of the places we had been to in National City. It was barely the size of a 7-11, and only two salesman were present: Kris, the owner, a paunchy 50-something Polish guy and Conrad, his long-suffering surfer-boy son. (I assumed he was long-suffering, given that he moved at a snail's pace while his father barked "Conrad!" every 30 seconds, followed by an angry Polish tirade.)

Kris and Conrad showed me two cars in the $5 thousand price range: A 2003 Hyundai Elantra, and a 2001 Mitsubishi Galant. I test-drove them both with Conrad.

"So what do you like to do for fun?," I asked him at one point.

"Get away from here," he replied, twisting a lock of bleached-blond hair.

The cars were all right, especially the Hyundai. But I didn't love them, and they still cost more than I wanted to spend.

Then I spotted Carmen. She was parked in the far rear corner and covered with bird shit.

It was love at first sight.

"How much for that one?" I asked.

"The Passat?," Kris snorted. "I give you that for $2,500, plus tax and title."

Upon closer inspection, I saw that Carmen had black leather seats. Yes, they were worn and discolored. But they looked luxurious nonetheless.

"Conrad!," I barked, jolting him from his daydream. "We're taking her out!"

She drove like a dream.

Thirty minutes later, as I waited at North Park Car Wash for a freshly scrubbed Carmen to emerge, I called my mother.

"You bought WHAT?" she screamed. "Why the hell would you spend $3,000 on an 11-year-old car with 112,000 miles on it?!" But then my mother has never understood any of my life choices.

A post-script to this seemingly interminable little story: I called Smitty's, a local garage with high marks on the Internet, yesterday. I wanted to bring Carmen in for a check-up and tune-up. "Hi," I said. "I just bought a 1997 Volkswagon Passat."

This was greeted by a slide whistle on the other end of the line. "Dude, I hope you're ready for a lifetime of throwing away money. The Passat is the single worst car there is."

Shock! Horror! How dare he speak this way about my Carmen! Surely he was lying. Still, I made arrangements to drop the car off there Sunday night.

In the meantime, I went back to the Internet. And found this.

It's a page from the Consumer Affairs web site devoted entirely to the Passat. If you have a spare five hours, I urge you to read it from beginning to end.

Here are some of my favorite highlights:

KG from New Jersey writes:

Last week I found myself in bumper-to-bumper traffic. The traffic let up momentarily and everyone zoomed ahead, only to stop suddenly. My Passat's brakes failed me, causing a 3 car accident. I am now charged with careless driving. I won't even get into the economic damage as it upsets me greatly and the matter is unresolved. Thanks a lot VW.

Not to be outdone, Sharon of Silver Springs, MD writes:

Last fall the window on my 1999 VW Passat fell into the door. A regulator needed replacing. Just this week the same thing happened on another window. After internet research it seems clear this is a problem in VWs.

OK, so the brakes OCCASIONALLY fail, and the windows OCCASIONALLY fall in. It's not like Passats are prone to explode or anything, is it?

Loretta of Kalona, IA writes:

I am the owner of a 2000 VW Passat. On Sunday, January 28, 2007, I watched my car go up in flames. I was at a friends house for lunch and we were preparing to take another friend to the airport. As we walked out to my car, which was parked in the driveway, we noticed smoke coming off of the hood and immediately knew something was wrong. In a matter of seconds, I noticed flames beginning to come out of the hood. The entire front half of my car is destroyed, as well as the interior.

Oh, Wah, Loretta! So your car is all burnt up. So what? It's not like your HOUSE burned down, or anything!

Greg of Colorado Springs writes:

Our house caught on fire. The garage was structurally damaged and the whole house incurred smoke damage and water damage. The cause of the fire, from the fire report, was the Passat. I was never compensated a dime from VW.

Oh, well. At least Carmen has a sun roof.

Homo out of $3,000. ♥