In 1989, I fell madly and hopelessly in love with a 1984, steel blue, Dodge Daytona. A two-door beauty with black and white race checkered seats, sparse metal dashboard, and the word turbo-charge stenciled on the console. I believe I was the third owner of this stunning machine and I found myself filled with a mixture of pride and delight each time someone commented on its beauty.
For the first two months or so, the car was at peak performance. A gradual reduction in engine power went unnoticed at first but eventually I found myself on the phone with the dealership, asking them if they could “please just take a peek under the hood.” This was the first of a multitude of phone calls, impromptu visits, and pleas for repair. Reluctantly, the dealer admitted that the car needed a replacement engine and I agreed to pay one-half the cost; no charge for labor.
Convinced my dream car was healed, I was surprised to discover one day in early April that my pseudo-sports car was once again losing its get-up-and-go. While on my way to pick up two very dear ladies and an adorable 10-year-old boy, I noticed a bit of hesitation when I stepped on the accelerator. I simply brushed it off. After all, this car had a new engine! Perhaps I had purchased some “watered-down-gas.”
My shopping companions and I went to all of our favorite stores and had lunch at the Jade Palace, where we dined on chicken lo mein, teriyaki ribs, and fried rice. On the way back, the young man and his mom sat in the tiny rear seat and the four of us were chatting about the weather when it happened. Without warning, the newly repaired, flawless, steel blue Daytona simply came to a stop. With some difficulty, I put the car in park and tried the ignition. The car started immediately and without a hitch, continued on its way. From my rear view mirror I could see my young passenger turn completely around in the seat. “Wow!” he said. “Aunt Belinda, look at what the car is doing now. Look!” The Daytona, gliding along the road with the smoothness of a satin ribbon, was emitting huge, colorful clouds of exhaust. A kaleidoscope of green, blue, yellow, orange and black foul smelling vapor poured from the dual, shiny chrome mufflers.
The little gentleman in the back seat sat on his knees, his eyes wide with delight. The ladies were reaching for the door handles, contemplating mutiny, I am sure. I put my head down on the imitation “custom racing” steering wheel. With one final cough, reminiscent of a fireworks grand finale, my beloved, steel blue Dodge Daytona died.
We all climbed out of the car and one of the ladies came over to me and we hugged.
“What a lemon! You must regret buying this car, Hon.”
I reached out fervently, my hand barely touching the now-over heated hood of the car. From the day the Daytona’s wide, custom wheels rolled off the dealership lot and onto the highway, I had done nothing but smile. I marveled one last time at that aero-dynamic design, mysterious shade of deep blue, and the answer was as clear as the April sky above. Did I regret it? No! Not for a single moment.
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
