Candy for all you tough-types.

I’ve been offended.

Because after years of hard work, sacrificies, difficult changes and assorted hell, I’d managed to buy a house three years ago. Got one just before the market went to hell and loans became impossible.

Most of my money in recent years has went into the house for one project or another. Then I got a new job with a longer commute that made a new car necesssary. I bought a modest new car during the “cash for clunkers” thing and got a pretty good deal, zero percent interest on the loan, ect. Still, it’s a car payment and higher car insurance premiums on top of having a mortgage payment, ect.

So my 1967 Chevy Impala has been silently rotting in my driveway. I got the weatherstripping all replaced last year, but the car hasn’t run right in two years. It needs more work than I had money to throw at it, or time to worry about, and there it sits.

Turns out, that’s a crime in this town.

I got the infamous “knock at the door” early last Saturday morning. One of my neighbors complained about an “abandoned car” sitting “junked” in my driveway.

The cop was nice enough about it. Apologetic, even. I have to get the car running, or at least get a tarp to throw over it, so it doesn’t offend the artistically sensitive eyes of one of my neighbors.

I’m a good neighbor. I don’t blast loud music. I don’t have wild parties. I don’t have screaming kids, ferocious dogs, or an electric fence. But some sonofabitch with nothing else to do but look through his window at my house, is giving me shit.

Another possibility is, somebody’s mad because I keep refusing to sell the car. I’ve had people just walk up to me and other members of my household out of the blue and offer cash for that car. The answer, of course, is always a polite but firm “No.”

Maybe somebody thinks that by causing me trouble, I can be encouraged to sell the car. Not on your life, bub.

Whatever the motivation behind the complaining party, he or she is gonna rue the day they ever said a damn word.

Because this 67 Impala has just been bumped way up my priority list. I’m going to get that engine not just fixed, but souped up to the extent my bank account can handle. I’m going to get bigger rims and bigger tires. I’m going to put the loudest and highest performance exhaust system on that car that money can buy. I’m going to paint it, fix the interior, and put in an excellent stereo system with an amplifer and a big box bass.

And then I’m gonna roar this thing up and down my street. I’m going to leave so much rubber on the road, there’ll be no need to pave it. If there’s a day I don’t plan to take the car out, I’ll at least start the motor and let it idle in the driveway, revving it as if I’m gonna plow through a house.

I’ll be sure and hit the Dixie horn two, maybe three times a day.

Be careful what you wish for, neighbor. There is no junk car in my driveway. There is only a 67 Impala that was once asleep; you have just ensured it’s awakening.

A couple months ago, my cousins and I picked up a rental car for a trip “up north.” We’d won the use of the rental car free of charge, at a local dealership shindig.

They gave us this thing, a 2010 Buick Lucerne. Black with chrome trim. It had about 300 miles on it. If that.

I immediately called my insurance company to make sure I was fully covered if I drove the thing. I wasn’t gonna fool around with a $45,000 car. Finding I was good to go, we gleefully packed the thing and headed off on our weekend trip.

Driving this thing felt great. It was kinda like Cinderella’s carriage; beautiful, but I’d be back in my own pumpkin in three days. I made the most of it, though. Leather seats, all the buttons you could stand to push, gadgets galore, and a smooth, solid ride. Plush, fast, and just mean enough looking to be taken seriously, this Buick was an elegant highway war machine.

It felt great to pull this thing up to the resort we were staying at. Doormen lept to assistance, offering to take our bags. Mind you there’s times I’ve pulled up to this place in our nondescript cars and didn’t get that kind of enthusiasm.

I noticed that people did treat us differently in this car. On the highway, other cars moved over so I could pass; people didn’t cut me off ; people didn’t park so close. We were given a wide berth and treated more deferentially than usual.

The moral of this story is…people do judge you and your worth by what you drive. I’ve suspected this for years, after suffering harrassment by law enforcement for driving beaters most of my life. But at no time was it as proven, or apparent, as when I was driving this thing.

In my daily commute, I drive a 2009 Pontiac G5. It’s the first brand new car I’ve ever bought for myself, in my life. It’s a good little car, and I like it. On the freeway, however, it’s not taken seriously. People cut me off. They swoop up on my bumper and try to push me down the road. Most drivers along my route are fairly decent, but in the most aggressive rush hours, this little Pontiac is not the war machine that big Buick is. Not that the Pontiac doesn’t serve me well; it does.

What you drive makes a difference, though. I’m convinced.