Nobody ever said to “beware of sisters bearing gifts.” So, when my younger sister offered me her car as she headed off to the Peace Corps a couple of years ago, I leapt at the opportunity.
I’d never had my own set of wheels before, and car ownership—along with having an apartment with a dishwasher, buying my own health insurance, and experiencing occasional back pain—is a crucial way-station on the road to being a Real Adult. Even if the car in question was a bit of a beater, a humble 12-year-old Subaru Outback upon which my sister had bestowed the charming name of “Menard” after a Midwestern discount chain with a catchy jingle, I wasn’t going to complain. Hey, a car’s a car. And more important, free is free.
Except when it isn’t. Oh sure, there were costs I expected to incur—the auto insurance mandate (or is it a tax?) that saw to it I’d be forking over a handsome sum every month, for example. And gas is not exactly cheap these days.
But there were also some nasty surprises from the start. Just a few short weeks after I brought the car down from Boston, I started getting a parking ticket every night. Was I parking too close to the curb, or perhaps near a fire hydrant? No: Apparently the nation’s capital is not a big believer in freedom of movement. According to city law, if you want to park anywhere in the District of Columbia for more than a few consecutive nights, you’re required to secure a D.C. license plate. (And, of course, pay the several hundred dollars that requires.)
I dutifully trudged down to the Department of Motor Vehicles—several times. (I always had the wrong form, or the line was too long, or didn’t I know the DMV is obviously closed on Mondays?) And when I finally managed to apply to have the car registered, it failed inspection.
After I shelled out four figures for a new catalytic converter—whatever that is—the car handled exactly as it had before I plowed the money into it, which is to say, poorly. But at least Menard now sported two shiny new District of Columbia tags, and I could park in my neighborhood without fear of an early morning visit from the dreaded Officer Mack.
I’d like to say that was the end of the saga. Alas, no. Over the following year, the windshield cracked. (Requiring a brand new windshield.) One day, Menard broke down in the parking lot of Ikea. (Requiring a new alternator and battery.) Not long after, that battery died. (Requiring a new battery—again.) At one point earlier this year, when I turned the car on, it let out such a blood-curdling scream that I was unable to drive anywhere in the early hours of the day—I didn’t want to wake my neighbors. It turns out that a car has something called a “serpentine belt,” and mine had come loose. As I endured this parade of very expensive horribles, there were times when I relished the thought of simply driving Menard into the Anacostia River and being done with him, sort of like The Love Bug meets The Awakening.
I don’t fantasize about that anymore, though. I happened to be in Phoenix this September on the rainiest day in the city’s recorded history. Driving a rental car to the airport to return to Washington in the pitch-black, stormy weather, I drove down an underpass—and straight into four or five feet of standing water. The engine immediately cut out, and as the car coasted along through the water, I seriously thought I was going to have to jump out and swim to safety. It was, frankly, terrifying.
Luckily, the car had just enough momentum to make it out of the trough of the puddle, and it stopped a little higher up, in two or three feet of water. I stayed in the car and called 911. The fire department arrived fairly swiftly and was able to push me out to safety, where I waited several hours for a tow.
I was grateful to be safe and dry. But, while the rental car itself was “free,” in that it had been paid for by an employer, I ended up having to shell out for the towing, the late fee, and the unfilled tank (I had planned to fill up at the airport). I was reminded again of a lesson that my old friend Menard had long since taught me: There’s no such thing as a free car.
