The Millenium Wombat

There was no return policy. It was a 500 dollar car, and it was my first at age thirty. How did I manage to get to the ripe old age of thirty without a car? Well, living in the Boston area and being from New York City, I could rely on public transportation a lot.

During my days as a Pius Itinerant, it had always been other people’s wheels, and, yes, I avoided getting a driver’s license until I was almost thirty. My first professional job as an applied anthropologist paid little. If I could have forged banknotes with a photocopy machine, I would have, just to supplement our minimal food budget. So, when I decided to buy a car, I purchased a “junker” with the tiny bit of money I could scrape together. What could go wrong?

It was an ancient Mustang of indeterminate color due to all the bodywork patches and spray paint coverings. Also, it had a very well-worked-on engine, meaning that I was almost working on it. I went from no mechanical knowledge of cars to changing distributors, carburetors, hoses, and pumps within a short period of time. When it was running, it “hauled ass.”

I was dating my future wife, and we covered most of New England in excursions. Eventually, we decided to name it. Millennium Falcon? No, it was too cludgy for that! Ah! The Millennium Wombat!

The Millennium Wombat had once been a hot car. And it had some vestiges of it left. Every once in a while, we’d be idling at a light stop, and some dude with a hot car would sneer at us, rev up his engine, and peel out to leave us in his dust. The Wombat seemed to take offense at this, recalled its glory days, left a trail of smoke, and zoomed out. We’d easily overtake them and leave them in our dust…and smoke.