Flotsam & Jetsam | An Island Car

— a semi-regular humor column by Maurice Austin —

Recently I paused at the post office bulletin board because an advertisement for a “good island car” caught my eye, or tried to catch my eye, anyway, except that the picture had been taken with an island camera, which probably had salt spray on its lens, or perhaps suffered some f-stop slippage issues due to an encounter with several soggy fronds of bull kelp.

It’s not like I need another island car, still having one that runs okay, except that there’s no speedometer or fuel gage, and the temperature gauge doesn’t work, and the suspension will probably have to wait until I figure out how to fix the coolant leak. But it does okay and the crack in the windshield hasn’t grown that much in the past year, though a couple of branches came down last winter and crushed the bug crusher, loosening the side-view mirror in the process, so that it dances around with every bump.

Still, it’s good to have a back-up for your back-up, so I called the guy and arranged a showing.

I was a bit concerned as I pulled into his driveway, because the pavement was all wet, and small piles of soap bubbles popped contentedly at the edges.

“Just washed it and vacuumed it,” he proudly declared. I gave a slight nod, not letting this development shake me. Indeed the vehicle looked pretty good, and what I took for rust on the hood and roof in the picture must’ve indeed been slime on the lens of the camera, because the paint looked clean, sparkly, unsullied by sea salt dripping tree sap pollen cat scratches deer encounters divots from the careless person in the next lane on the ferry.

“Hop in,” he said. I was worried when he opened the door, because nothing squeaked, nothing fell out from the floorboards, and there wasn’t a pile of pine needles and dirt on the floor mats. He ran around and jumped in the passenger seat. “Go ahead,” he said, handing me the keys.

I needn’t have bothered. The vehicle caught on the first crank, purred quietly as I steered it out of the drive, noiselessly nosed down the Horseshoe Highway, without suspension clunks or brake squeal or wind whistling through ill-fitting windows. Dejected, I check the rear-view mirror and saw not least trace of smoke—not blue, not white, not black, nothing. I sighed.

“Does it overheat at all?” I asked, hopefully.

“Nah—runs like a top. And only 109,000 miles. Went to Spokane and back last week without an issue.”

I was speechless. Eventually, I might have to explain to this proud automobile owner that the phrase “island car” implies something to which no well-kempt and cosmetically clean car can lay claim: call it grit or perseverance or character or whatever, due perhaps to regional isolation, low speed limits, short commutes, infrequent traffic enforcement, repair time and expense, expense of junking, though eventually every vehicle is either consumed by the blackberries, or the owner pleads, Come take it, please, I’ll pay anything, really, need it out of my driveway yesterday, soon as I get my tools and that scrap lumber out of it.

Back at the driveway, I crawled underneath, hoping so see some bit of an oil leak or crack in the exhaust system, something that could be fixed with a Campbell’s soup can and some bailing twine, perhaps, to minimally qualify for “island car” status, but all that I noticed was that owner had apparently applied Armor-All to both the exterior and interior sidewalls.

Crawling out, I shook my head.

“What—what’s wrong?” the owner said.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said, “and I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”

“You want to make an offer? I’m not firm on the price.”

“Do the turn signals work?” I asked. He nodded vigorously. Must be new to the island, if he knows his turn signals work. Some long-term islanders seem to have completely forgotten that there’s a stick that sticks out from the steering column and indicates via flashing lights which direction you intend to go, sheesh.

“Any rust at all?” I asked. He shook his head. “See, this is what I mean,” I said. “In any true island car, rust has not just gained a foothold, but has pushed inland, colonizing and setting up trade relations, a judicial system, and local and vehicle-wide government offices.”

He looked at his car, eyes somewhat downcast.

“It’s not a bad vehicle,” I consoled. “Maybe give it a few years without a wash, let the pollen and the sea salt merge, launch a boat in the salt every now and then, until your brakes squeal in such a way that all across Canada, Caribou in heat start migrating south every time you take a spin.”

“But it’s such a reliable vehicle,” the owner protested.

“Right? What’s the fun in that? On the island, after all, cars are just how we get from being on the water back to being on the water, and if we have to keep our fingers crossed in order to squeeze 20 more miles out of a beater, so be it, the risk and the rust and the mud and the spider’s webs in the passenger seat and the piles of pine needles make it all worth while, maybe some lichen or moss, even, o bravado of bald tire, courage of slipping clutch, temerity of overheating transmission!”

He gave me a look like one of those people who looks at people like they’re crazy. Poor guy. Hopefully he’ll figure a way to get to the boat launch occasionally, and dip that sucker in up to its rear axle, although this guy, he’s probably so conscientious he’d have figured out a way to affix a sacrificial anode to his rear bumper, perhaps a reproduction of the dangling reproductive organs of a male sea-cow, rendered in zinc.

“Look,” I asked, “how much you want for the camera?” At least some good could come from all this.

Your mileage may vary.