Short Story: Disposable Cars by Zeeshan Qasim


Short Story: Disposable Cars by Zeeshan Qasim

My father brought a new car home 11 years ago. It wasn’t the greatest of cars. It didn’t have leather seats, antilock brakes, or even a moonroof. It looked like a cream colored box on wheels. For a box, it was really fast. As a car though, she was a bit more disappointing; too afraid to allow her needle to venture much further than 80 and too small to properly fit a family of 6. We were willing to work with her, though. I pushed her to 85 every now and then and at 90, she was a whiner. She threw proper tantrums; full of violent shaking, heavy breathing and moaning, she even flipped out on the road once. I don’t want to get too detailed but it ended with her losing two tires and me dangerously close to a brick wall. Still, I didn’t mind listening to her complaints. Her central locking system and automatic windows were enough to win and keep my affections at the time.

Shortcomings and all, we rolled out the red carpet for her. Gave her exclusive rights to the garage. Our older more pliant cars used to flee the driveway as my dad would come home from work, just so the Camry wouldn’t be subjected to low-level street parking. Yup, she was a spoiled little brat. Kinda like a little sister to us.
I guess things first started to change about 4 years ago when my pops bought a brand new SUV. The gas guzzling high-maintenance SUV kicked the Camry out of the garage on it’s first night with us. Then came a car for my brother 1 year later. I followed up with a brand new car of my own a year after that. Pretty soon the Camry was in the hands of the baby of the family. He dinged her up real good. He scraped her painting while parallel parking,and put nails and glass through her balding tires. Dented body, shaved tires, broken doors; but nobody cared. Actually, nobody even noticed.
I wish I could document her demise in greater detail, but the truth is, I wasn’t even there to witness it. One day she was in our garage and today she is sitting at the BART station. Yes, the BART station. Nobody ever takes their real car to the BART station. The BART station is the home of backup cars. BART cars are the clothes you wear when you paint the house. They are your airplane toothbrush. You dont care if your BART car gets stolen. You simply just walk home if you cant find it.
She whimpered a bit when I parked her this morning. She sounded real surprised. But she must have seen it coming, right? Didnt she see the other cars that were kicked to the street when we celebrated her arrival 11 years ago?