Ballin': A Leather Mercedes

A month or so ago, I got into the dire business of looking for a new car. There is a new driver in the family, and that precipitated the search, which I figured would be easy, that given the straits the economy is in, car dealers would hand me a set of shiny new keys and thank me before any haggling over figures ever took place. Boy, was I wrong. Dead wrong. Completely wrong.

I wanted a Honda, because I’ve always had one (what better reason to want another one?). What I didn’t realize, and still haven’t been able to comprehend, is why Honda hasn’t seen the drastic fall in sales that all the other automakers have. The dealer neither thanked me or handed me that gleaming key. He spit out a price and laughed at my attempt to haggle. I left, a sadder (if wiser) woman.

A month later, just after Christmas, the new driver in the family insisted I go “check out some rides,” which I gladly did. The first couple I saw were used Hondas and other Japanese models, none of which were very interesting. Then, the angels started singing, their harps in high gear. I was standing in front of a drop-dead gorgeous black mercedes. Leather seats (of course!), all the standard Mercedes features that I just absorbed. That car seemed to fit like a nicely expensive leather glove.

When I got in, I couldn’t breathe. I’ve never seen anything so sleek and perfect and right in place. The dealer just smiled and got in the passenger seat, my new driver daughter in the back. After learning how to start the car (its key, well, I’ll just attach a picture if I can), and finally agreeing that it was on because the engine, though a V6, was so quiet and there was no seat-shaking burst like when I start my old Honda, we slowly (reverently) made it to a road.

I felt slim and svelte in that car on the road. That little mercedes only took up about half the lane, so it felt like being at a crowded, country club party and being the best dressed there in a chic and slim black outfit with just the right, rich leather accents. What a dream I was in, pure, unlicentious fantasy and since it was not entirely immoral, I allowed myself to embrace the fantasy completely. I inhaled, so to speak.

When we got back to the dealership, after the smoothest ride of my entire driving life (I’ve driven in the Sahara Desert where there is no road, I’ve driven in parts of Nigeria where it took 4 hours to travel 60 miles, and I’ve driven in New Orleans where the potholes regularly swallow up cars the size of that Mercedes), the dealer began his talk.

What an intuitive, wonderful man. Tall, dark, and handsome, he said, “What do you do for a living?” “I”m a teacher,” figuring he would immediately grab that ultra cool Mercedes key back, frown heavily, and turn on his heel, leaving me without that car forever (and the fantasy would vanish immediately). However, he just smiled very warmly and said, “What grade? Where?” “12th” was all I got out before he laughed heartily and said, “Lady, you deserve this car!!” “How long you been teaching?” “20 years.” “You been puttin’ up with them kids that long?? You definitely deserve this car.”

We got into the discussion of how much, and I’ll spare those nasty details, but it amounted to just a tad more than that silly Honda I had fallen in love with just a short month ago (Civic who? 40 mpg -- who cares?). As I came to grips with the $500/month note, the dealer understood my silence. “I’ll be so broke,” I said, very sadly. “But you’ll be ballin’” to which I threw back my head, feeling my hair dance down my back and wave in the breeze, took in the sun and the cold and the wind, and laughed out loud, for a full couple of minutes. From my new driver daughter: “Yeah, mom, can you imagine driving up to school in this? Your kids will think you’re ballin’, too.”

Well, it’s been another month, Obama is about to get sworn in tomorrow, cold weather has come and gone and come back again, and all I can think of in my spare moments when fantasies run wild, is that black on black Mercedes Benz. I tried to confess to my favorite pair of priests that I had been carrying on a month-long affair with a Mercedes, and they both threw back their heads and laughed out loud. I told all my friends and co-workers, hoping one of them would say something that would slap me back to Honda-reality, but they all threw back their heads and laughed out loud.

I tried to channel my relief-missionary father, who rescued Biafrans and was shot at for doing so, and whom I actually got to help hand out medicines and so forth to desert nomads a few times. I channeled him, thinking surely, he’ll reach from Heaven and I’ll be in that sensible Honda before I can get a Hail Mary out. But, I could only hear him repeating the words of my daughter, “Well, if it’s the last car you plan to buy . . . “ and, later, “Maybe, you ought to ball. It’s not such an unhealthy mid-life crisis.” And that was all from Pop. Thanks, Pop.

From my favorite wise folks, the Vietnam veteran and his wife who make up the formidable team that keeps our hallowed school halls sparkling (well, that’s a stretch. Not even something that emits nuclear radiation could make our halls sparkle): “Look at it this way. Enjoy that ride. If you have to give it up to the repo man, you had it for a while when you needed it to make you smile.” The smile on their faces was full and sincere, and I recognized the same humility that I had been missing from my relief-missionary Pop. Wow! No wonder I made such an instant and deep friendship with them -- they were Pop, reincarnated.

So, what am I waiting for? Well, this is what I’m waiting for: Somewhere, I heard (probably in that fantasy-clouded land I tend to stay in) that Obama said he was going to give us a tax-free buying period of 10 days or so, when whatever we buy would not be taxed. If I were to buy my slim Mercedes then, I wouldn’t have to pay tax and title, nor would I have to pay for the car tag. I can just afford $500/month for the right to ball, provided my second job holds out and no one in the family needs any new clothing or leather accessories. And, if I were able to buy that 1/2-lane car in President Obama’s tax-free period, I could ball in the serene knowledge that I were doing my share for the economy. It would be an actual patriotic event.

Stay tuned. I managed somehow, even in all the Christmas over-spending, to put $500 to work on my crazy credit card balance and $400 on my stupid let’s-redo-the-kitchen bank loan. I bought some shiny, black, bouncy, rubber “super balls” for inspiration. I keep one in my purse, one’s in my desk drawer at school, and one’s in the glove compartment of my old Honda. I smile when I look at them, and sometimes, I bounce them around. I’ll either be ballin’ soon, or my car note checks will bounce as high as the super balls, and I’ll be in a used Honda.