mitsubishi mirage, r.i.p.

Those of you who know me in meatspace know it’s been a busy stretch for me lately.
Lots of travel (Mexico, Boston, Austin, and New York in the last six weeks). Tons of stories on my beat (lots of Wilmer-Hutchins stuff and testing stuff — like today’s front-pager). Various dinners and drinks and other social engagements. Watching my North Carolina Tar Heels reassume their rightful post on top of the basketball world. And, oh by the way, I’m going to frickin’ Nigeria in two days and don’t even have a hotel reservation.
So. The last thing I needed last night was for some drugged-up punk to run a downtown Dallas red light at 60 mph and total my car. But, quoth Mick Jagger, you can’t always get what you want.
I was driving home from work, minding my own business, when a fellow named Keithon ran a light (Dallasites: he was eastbound on Commerce, I was northbound on Central). I slammed on the brakes, but it wasn’t enough and I plowed into his right rear door. Because he was moving so fast, he spun around and slammed into a pole with a traffic signal, knocking it over and collapsing it on his roof.
I’m okay, first of all. Sore as hell, but okay. My noble 1996 Mitsubishi Mirage, however, is likely totaled. It’s a moment of some sadness, I’ll admit. I’ve owned only two cars in my life, both 1996 Mirages. Bought my first one in 1997 on my last day as a Louisiana resident before driving north to Ohio for my first post-college job. Took the odometer from 19,000 to 90,000.
But then the air conditioner broke down. I went a full calendar year without a/c, in Texas no less. People thought I was insane. Among those people was my grandmother, who by this point wasn’t driving any more and had earlier purchased her own 1996 Mitsubishi Mirage. Hers had functioning a/c, so we swapped.
(Of course, the a/c in that car died within two weeks of my owning it, proving me climate-control challenged.)
Anyway, my Mirage was my little way of rebelling against Dallas life. It was functional, and it wasn’t horribly ugly or anything. But in a city where so many people spend more than they should on cars, in hopes of looking fashionably shallow, I was proud of my nine-year-old beater.
It also proved to be a good litmus test for people. Went on a second date once where the girl said, with no small measure of disgust, “When are you going to get a new car?” There was no third date. (Actually, I think there probably was a third date. But definitely no fourth date.)
Now, I’ve got a dozen new items on my to-do list. Deal with my insurance company. Deal with his insurance company (oh, wait — he didn’t have insurance; never mind). Get copy of police report. Look into buying new car. Wonder why stray puppies and smashed automobiles are both kept in places called “city pounds.” All fun.
On the plus side, I rode my bike to work today. Felt all urban and stuff.