Sometimes you get a car, and it’s not quite what you expected. And then, sometimes, you get a car, and the smiling dealer is humming the theme from the Exorcist, with subtle hints of Jaws, as you foolishly drive it off the lot.

Sometimes you get a car, and it’s not quite what you expected.

And then, sometimes, you get a car, and the smiling dealer is humming the theme from the Exorcist, with subtle hints of Jaws, as you foolishly drive it off the lot.

I had never seen her so happy as the day she got married–gleefully laughing and doing the tango with a bridesmaid–except the day when she finally ditched the rotting albatross: the Neon.

I was never quite sure why she bought it. Maybe it was those ecstatically happy commercials. You might remember that the Neon was featured in relentlessly cycled ads where the car itself danced in orgasmic joy to a pulsating soundtrack. Perhaps implying that it wouldn’t just be your best friend, but would snuggle you in the dark of night, and whisper in your fine shelled ear about how your brilliant eyes are like two mysterious flowing nebulas in a serpentine sea. But, no matter, buy it she did, sadly unaware that if she glanced in her rearview mirror, she would see the dealers, not only humming ominously, but also breaking into a sinister song and dance number.

The Neon revealed its nefarious nature almost immediately, and soon she was back at the dealer weekly, then daily. I suspect that they gave up and just set regular appointments with the mechanics, knowing the patient would have an inevitable relapse. Sometimes the same operation was performed several times in a few days, as, for your convenience, parts arrived pre-broken, with the same (or worse) messy problems as the bits they were to step in and relieve. Sometimes the dealer–the dealer, mind you–couldn’t get parts at all. They didn’t exist. Or perhaps those that made them had already been lined up and shot, the plans and prototypes destroyed, but there was no way to know.

Her eyes quickly assumed the manic gleam, sometimes superseded by brief periods of glum hopelessness, that haunts the betrayed. The mechanics were sick of the sight of her, and began to play grim games for amusement. When she rolled in under foot power, with the car shuddering and shrieking a horrible death rattle, even in idle, they claimed not to hear anything. They claimed this even as they shouted over the noise in question.

She began to plot.

There was a strong push to simply set the car on fire and watch evil burn, belching volcanoes and short piers were certainly also considered, and, of course, the visceral satisfaction of a baseball bat should never be ignored. Still, finally, grimly, she knew she had to sell it. It was the only way to afford real wheels, such as a Pinto, which was at least honest enough to just explode outright.

The dealer wouldn’t take it, and, amazingly, a coworker, displaying an outstanding ability for inattentive listening, made a move. She recoiled from this offer for her own safety, and eventually, with no small amount of guilt, sent the Neon off with a endlessly brave stranger.

And then, there was a tango.