Meeting Mr. Miyagi

This is an entry from my journal on the day that I got my beautiful van.

September 19, 2011

Today I got a van. I have been scouring Craigslist.com for more than a month, checking and following up on leads 2 to 3 times a day. It has been quite a feat. I have researched minivans with great gas mileage and only 4 cylinders. I manufactured this massive shopping guide for me, my Mom, and my Dad. I cross referenced my guide and research lists with classifieds in (omit names of various urban communities). It has been exhausting. When I first saw it, I knew that it was for me. It has character. It is a classic. My van is a 1985 Toyota van wagon. Faded brown paint, rusty red interior, dusty, old, and absolutely beautiful. She is freedom for me, freedom on wheels. Or maybe it is a he. I shall have to see when I finally shake hands with my new home. Either way, I knew this was the one. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I do believe in intuition and mine has never failed me. I knew this was mine. I knew it. You couldn’t argue with me. Even my logical brain that told me to not get attached, to keep my options open didn’t make sense. My gut feeling was quite strong.
I sent the email out immediately. I wanted to see the van and the owner could not possibly deny me. She was located in (omit name of urban area). If you have never shopped on Craigslist in (omit), you should know that it moves fast. You find a posting for a decent car and two hours later it has already been sold. The masses scour this site and drop everything to act immediately on a good deal. So when I did not hear back from the owner for a week, I had to come to terms with the fact that she had sold it and had not yet removed the ad. It just didn’t feel right. Every time I would go back to look for good minivans, I would stop by the ad, dreading the day when the owner would finally delete it. When I could no longer gaze longingly on the pictures of its faded caramel beauty. It couldn’t be true. It just had to be mine. And then we got the email. I dispatched my father immediately, as he lives in same area, and I live in (omit). Armed with a $350 down payment because it was Sunday and he couldn’t get the full price of the van from an ATM, my father went down to look at the van. I waited all day for the prognosis. He certainly took his time with it. It was just like waiting for Christmas morning. He took in its dinged up and faded exterior, he examined the clean but worn interior. Then he started up the engine, it rumbled begrudgingly in the way that old cars do, and then settled into an exquisite purr that my father described as the song of a reliable vehicle. He took her around the block, he took her on the highway. The gears shifted, not quite like silk or butter, but with the ease of years of practice. He looked under the hood, under the driver’s seat (because that’s where the engine happens to be located), and under the floor boards (the battery). Everything was in order. Normally he would argue the price down a few hundred dollars, but he happily promised to pay the full $1000 for 1985 Toyota in excellent condition. I think, perhaps, that he fell in love with it as well. But it doesn’t matter, she is mine, or maybe he. When I got the news I was in Walgreens, buying some drinks to complement the pizza my roommate had purchased us for lunch. I squealed. My father had to pull the phone from his ear. People all over Walgreens stopped and stared at me. I paid for my drinks and ran outside. My roommate, who very sweetly had been waiting with baited breath alongside me all morning, knew immediately what I meant when I pointed to the phone and started jumping up and down. She got out of the car and we did that thing where you cross your arms and spin around in circles. Right there in the parking lot, right there in the rain. I did a happy dance. A very happy dance, comparable to the time I won $900 at a casino with just one bet at a slot machine. I probably looked like an epileptic chicken, but I don’t care. The news was too good to stand still and risk spontaneous internal combustion.
My father returned this morning with the remaining cash and my baby brother in tow. By baby I mean 20 years old and going into the army this winter. They dropped off the cash and picked up my new home. I happened to call my father, not really so much by accident since I have been calling every 20 minutes since yesterday, just as he was starting up. The starting cough, grumble, and hum was like music to my ears over hundreds of miles of cellphone air space. I shall not see my van for two weeks when I drive my poor dying little Hyundai to (omit) to leave behind and pick it up. My father has sent the pictures, the sweet dear. I am afraid I shall be bugging my little brother daily for new pictures. Poor boy, he will oblige me, my sweet brother. Anyway, I have a van. I have a home. Soon I shall have my freedom, mounted on axles and wheels. I cannot wait.

So there it is. I have since met my van and determined that it is a he. I named him Mr. Miyagi and drove him home. He has been with me for two weeks now and I could not be happier.