It’s My Beetle, and I’ll Call It What I Want To
I am a proud (relatively new) owner of a secondhand white Beetle. How proud? I love it so much, I break out in song whenever I see a black Beetle. Ebony and Ivory. Seriously.
One of the first things I had to learn was that the car needed to be fed. Find out how to open the gas tank, find out where the oil dip stick goes, and find out the names of the liquids that go into the car.
Apparently, the liquids are something called coolent and windshield wiper fluid, which I’ve now coded as Orange Liquid and Blue Liquid. Someone mentioned once the colors depended on the brand of said coolent, so I’m pretty screwed there.
I didn’t quite realize you also needed to “change the oil” every three months or 3,000 miles. The last time I did that I was driven to some garage and someone changed the oil in my Beetle. So naturally it took six months for me to remember I needed to “change the oil.”
Jiffy Lube, 3 p.m., hot Friday afternoon. I’m sitting in what looks like a doctor’s office, with magazines in the corner, a coffee maker with dubious brown liquids, and generic plastic chairs. The car owners are all sitting around avoiding eye contact while their cars are outside.
The mechanics take turns to come in and shout out the car’s names. “Mitsubishi!” A guy walks out with the mechanic. “Chevy!” Another man walks out. “Volkswagen! Volkswagen! Volkswagen?”
“Miss, don’t you own the Volkswagen?”
Yes, I do. I stand up and walk out with him.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting ‘Volkswagen.’ I thought you’d say ‘Beetle.’”