The dealership’s report was nothing more than a sheet of paper full of crossed-out squares. In theory, the final inspection had been rigorous, listing in detail the condition of all items in the vehicle.
“What about my condition?” I thought. Heart pounding. Where in that document did the accessories that did not come from the factory appear? The dent that no golden hammer knew how to repair, after the collision of a bus that spun on the track “Fast and Furious” style and gently collided with me, stopped at the lights, as if it were a roller cart.
Vacuum-proof, the hair of animals taken to the vet and rescued from the street. The glove compartment unable to close, given its history of tissues and sad music CDs. And behind the wheel, the indelible ocher stain Gata Garota nº 1, the result of countless make-up in traffic jams.
None of this was investigated. Nor could it. A car, for me, is not an investment or bargaining chip, but a monogamous relationship. I take one at a time, for a long time, until the death of the engine do us part. I even cried, like a widow Maria Gasolina, when I handed over my most recent and decrepit vehicle.
Our common mileage was such that, being a few months pregnant, I stuck a “baby on board” to the rear window. I then accelerate until the final goodbye, with the baby in question present. Already wearing size 38 and playing “Grand Theft Auto”.
In the previous marriage, the same ideological fidelity. So much so that a candidate’s sticker remained attached for two consecutive elections.
I like to age with my cars, as I don’t have patience for the “screws to break” that are starting to happen. I find modern vehicles to be disgracefully inelegant. If it weren’t for my attachment to luxuries like Siberian air conditioning in the Rio summer, I’d be driving a Vemaguet. Or any other model from the year (in which I was born).
I take all the family snappers with me. From the 1969 panty blue Beetle to the 1971 peacock blue TL. From the alabaster beige Passat to the “cooked crab” Brasília, a color seen only in the most psychedelic cards of my nostalgia.
I believe I am not alone in this review. There are Belinas,
Variants and Monzas for any chassis. From mother, from grandfather, from neighbor. On vacation, going to the beach and coming back with a child sleeping in the back seat. Precious memories. Invaluable, according to the Fipe table.
2024-01-28 21:34:00
#live #monogamous #relationships #cars #Bia #Braune
