When I woke up this morning, the temperature read “Good Luck Getting Out from Those Covers, Asshole.” Which roughly equates to 7 degrees, fahrenheit. It was a rude awakening, as I blindly reached to turn off the smooth sounds of R. Kelly’s “Ignition (Remix)”, my phone’s latest alarm song. When I started to get changed, my phone rang. It was Sam.

“Hey, hun. Are you awake?”
“Yeah, what’s up? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I just wanted to give you a heads up. It’s freezing out.”
“I know.”
“You should probably go outside and start your car early, to get it warmed up.”

Nope.

I don’t wanna.

It’s too damn cold.

And this story isn’t about waking up in a frozen Philadelphia tundra, in which I need to mad-dash in my pajamas just to put the keys in the ignition (although R. Kelly would be proud of that one.)

This is about my car.

Meet Roscoe. He’s almost 10 years old. Isn’t he adorable?

I hear Jay Z has a similar model. I wanna be like Jay Z.

I hear Jay Z has a similar model. I wanna be like Jay Z.

This is a 2005 (2004? Maybe? Screw it, I suck at cars) Ford Crown Victoria. It’s a decommissioned sheriff’s car. That means every time someone sits in the backseat, they’re sitting on history. And history consists of drug addicts who just got done beating up hookers at McDonald’s.

I took a lot of time naming this car. More time than I should. I mean, hell, I probably should have focused harder on the job search. But I knew my valiant steed would never forgive me without an identity, and I refuse to anger the gods of the road. So I named him after the kind of man that my car would be, if he were human – a redneck mechanic, hellbent on telling others to piss off.

"My name's Roscoe, and this here is my brother…Roscoe." *spits tobacco at you*

“My name’s Roscoe, and this here is my brother…Roscoe.” *spits tobacco at you*

Let’s take a look at some facts about the car, so you can revel in my excellent choices:

  1. I got this car from my sister and brother-in-law (for which I’m very grateful), as an exchange for goods and services. Goods and services. This car wasn’t paid for in cash. It was treated like a goddamn payment plan from the 1600s.
  2. The entire front bumper of the car is scratched to hell, which looks absolutely painful when comparing to the rest of the white-colored body. I’ll just call it “street cred”.
  3. If I ever lock all my doors at one time, be it purposefully or accidentally, I’ll need a coat hanger, a brick, a 12-gauge shotgun, and holy water to open it back up. Yeah. I can’t lock my car ever. I’d say that’s an invitation for robbers to come take it, but if you honestly find something worth taking, I commend you.
  4. Because there used to be a siren on top, the bolt holes were never properly sealed. So whenever it…weathers outside…it weathers all over me.
  5. The lighting fixture hangs loosely from the ceiling. It works, it’s just sorta dangling around right now, and I’m afraid it’ll break, but not afraid enough to do anything about it. Fear doesn’t motivate my laziness.
  6. The car has a V8 engine, which is sweet. But when I power it on, it sounds like Thor in a Chipotle bathroom.
  7. The turn signals only work for 15 seconds at any given ride, and takes approximate 4 hours before it fully refills those 15 seconds worth of use. So I have to limit the amount of turn signal usage I have, or else I have to resort to hand signals. And no one on the goddamn road knows hand signals anymore, so they just assume I’m either waving them on or flipping them off. Seriously, people. Go learn hand signals. Before I end up ramming into you. On accidental purpose.
  8. It might just be old, but the wiper fluid apparently makes the windshield even worse than it already is.
  9. This one is probably the funniest. So, you know how cop cars make it impossible to open the door in the backseat, since criminals would be so ready to tuck-and-roll down a highway? That’s sort of the case for my rear left door. Except, instead of being locked, it just doesn’t have a door handle. It’s hysterical when people go to exit.
  10. It’s one of the worst cars for gas efficiency. It has a 19 gallon tank. 19 friggin’ gallons. I’m singlehandedly killing the earth every time I go to 7-11.
  11. My dash lights don’t work at all, except for warning me that my anti-locking brakes aren’t working correctly. I can’t see how fast I’m going. I’m guesstimating my ass all the way home every night. I tried to install a little portable light, but the damn thing falls every time I hit a bump, and I think I gave it a hemorrhage.
  12. It’s a front-wheel drive car. Every ice patch is a giant “up-yours” to my tread.
  13. Oh yeah, I mentioned earlier about the anti-locking brakes. Yeah. That’s not a thing. Nor is power steering. I’m driving a really-fast pickup truck, without the illusion that I’m the tallest person on the road.
  14. My passenger cupholder doesn’t have a bottom piece. If I ever forget to let my co-pilot know, their coffee becomes floor coffee. Which is now vicariously my coffee. Score one for me…
  15. The trunk is actually a little too large. I could fit three Mark Wahlberg’s comfortably back there.
  16. Finally, it’s going to be on its last legs soon. I don’t imagine it going more than a year, if that, just because it’s an old car with a ton of mileage.

But he gets me where I need to go. And he’s mine. And he will never take anyone’s shit. Because he’s Roscoe, dammit, and he’s had a long day at the shop.

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