The wrap-around rear window was beautiful. He had abundant capacity for the equipment for our two-piece girl band. Just the right car at the right time.
He was missing some chrome parts from the interior, so I spent an hour or so at Bobo's Parts (real name) and removed parts under the watchful gaze of nice old men sitting in the sun on nearly three-legged cafeteria chairs.
Things were cool with Stinky except every couple of days I had to reach under the hood and tighten this nut that had *something* to do with the clutch.
But whatever. I moved to New Hampshire for a few months and left all cars to Pop. He sold the unloved Volvo, tweaked Stinky in unappreciated ways and when I returned to the state I was back in business, automotively speaking.
Then the unholy possession began. Occasionally I'd hear the sound of a relay tripping when I was driving, and then the wipers would go for one full cycle. And the headlights would blink. Eventually it would make the car undriveable. My motordudes could only fix it by disconnecting my backup lights. Mmmm.
Then the clutch went. In the middle of the street in the big city, the Friday of Labor Day weekend. We drove around the city in the tow truck for two hours before finding a shop that was still open that would take us. It was in a creepy neighborhood. I was grazed by a motorcyclist while in the crosswalk four doors away from the shop, as I and my pocket full of cash tried to retrieve the car.
I owned Stinky just long enough to attract the almost boyfriend who had previously owned a Barracuda. The smile on his face while he drove the thing made the chaos worth it. But while we were together the clutch died again. The electrical demons came back one night. I asked the motordudes to just patch it well enough to sell.
The almost boyfriend had moved to Beijing. I needed money to travel.
[Note: updated with more descriptive and less easily misunderstood blog name]