Human beings, with all of the problems they have to deal with (disease, bills, and congressmen, for example), for some reason still find the time to get obsessed with objects. And there is no good reason for this, either.
Some people get obsessed with a favorite article of clothing, and fawn over it, deeming it lucky and wearing it either nonstop, or only on special occasions. Others have obsessions with jewelry, because of sentimental value (such as, "My boyfriend Ted gave me this ring in fourth-grade, and even though Ted turned out to be insane and ugly, it MEANS something to me and I would DIE if I lost it!!!"). Yet others get obsessed with weaponry, and usually end up in militias. But that is a topic for a whole different column.
Anyway, I've become obsessed with an object way too much over the past week or so, that object being my "new" car. It is a 1990 Chevrolet Corsica, which I got after my old car -- a 1987 Chevy Celebrity -- started giving subtle hints that it didnŐt want to go anymore. It first hinted it wanted to stop when a power steering hose burst; after I ignored that hint and had it fixed, its alternator started spewing forth bearings. Stubbornly, I had that fixed too (thanks, Dad) -- so its radiator started to leak. I was starting to get my carŐs hints by this time, but fixed the radiator anyway, thinking it was my imagination. My car, getting frustrated, decided therefore to have its ignition switch go out, so I could not even start it without great consternation on my part. I got the point; I retired it, and got the Corsica.
Well, after my Dad got the Corsica running nicely, I made the mistake of driving it. I, being used to a car which was trying simply to go somewhere and die, instantly fell in love with the car (in a very normal car-person sort of relationship and nothing else, thank you). And I became obsessed.
Last week, I ended up spending a lot of time on that silly car that I should have spent on more important pursuits (like napping). You know about my little trip to the DMV if you read my column last week; I also spent two hours getting new stereo put in the Corsica.
The height of this obsession of mine came when I decided -- alone and unsupervised -- to go to a junk yard in an effort to find a taillight for the Corsica, because one of the original ones was busted. Frankly, I had no business embarking on such a journey; I have the mechanical ability of a Milk Bone, and should only go near a car with tools if I intend on causing serious bodily harm to myself and others.
I went to the junkyard, and found a Corsica -- with the taillight intact. I was thrilled at this find -- until, I realized, the trunk was still shut on the junked vehicle. Of course, you can get at the taillights only through the trunk on this kind of car.
Seeking guidance, I went up to the cashier and asked if they had a key or something to get in the trunk. I was told, seriously, to go ahead and break the lock off the trunk or do whatever to get in there.
The only tool I had is a Leatherman's tool -- kind of a Swiss Army Knife, but with all tools -- which my dad had just given me. Nonetheless, I set out to break into that trunk.
After about 15 minutes of fiddling with the lock unsuccessfully in the hot sun, I was about to sanely give up and go home. I was just thinking of who I could get with more mechanical competence to come back with me later when I heard a metallic "snap."
I had broken one of the pliers' tips off my new Leatherman's tool.
Like the tool, I then snapped. I decided that, dammit, my car needed this taillight, and since I had broken my Leatherman's tool, I was going to get that taillight if it killed me.
It didn't kill me, but it came somewhat close. I am not making this up -- I broke my Leatherman's tool in two more places, dehydrated myself in the afternoon sun after being out there for over an hour, and gashed myself in numerous places -- but I completely picked the trunk lock of that junker Corsica until it was gone. I then opened the trunk and removed the taillight.
I learned a valuable lesson from this whole thing: Object obsessions can be dangerous, folks. I vow that the next time I go goofy over an object, it will be something like a piece of jewelry -- preferably a piece of jewelry without taillights or trunk locks.
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan who has made numerous friends and family members promise NOT to let him go near a junkyard unsupervised ever, ever again. His column appears here Tuesdays, and he can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@stanfordalumni.org.