Hoopty

The definition in Urban Dictionary reads this:

Hoopty:
	Basically, a piece of shit car. Usually cheap and/or broken down. Can be any size, make or model, but must (or should) be embarrassing to drive for some reason, such as when you bump the stereo all the plastic "effects" you have hot-glued to the exterior rattle, instantly betraying the cheapness of your bling.

Hoopty wasn't always such a beater, I bought it brand spanking new and I thought it was a nice little car. It was my first car and I earned every stinking penny to pay for it, hence the very stripped down model. But it drove like a demon, well into the 200,000 mile range, and the heater kicked ass on the coldest of days. Well, maybe not near the end, but that car rocked until the very end--figuratively speaking.

I bought my Nissan Sentra right after I got my first job out of college. I couldn't afford much, so the basic model I drove out of the showroom had vinyl seats, bare bones interior, manual transmission and was completely lacking immenities such as tinted windows and a stereo. I drove around very quietly until I could afford a stereo to be installed. Yes, frugal beginnings for girlfriend--I spent exactly $7700 on that beauty.

But my Sentra started every day, even in the coldest of winters. I drove that beast for years and it saw me through the best of times: job changes, courtship with Joe, marriage, buying our first house, the birth of my first child, and was finally handed over for Joe to drive every day. It went and went, never stalling or needing repair. It was a swell little car and I loved it dearly.

There came a day when my Sentra had to go--it had over 100,000 miles on it and we needed a bigger vehicle to cart around the growing family in. My aunt and uncle expressed interest in it and we handed over the keys for some ridiculous amount, like $800 or something. And they handed it over to my cousin, Kelllliiiii.

Kelllliiii drove the beast for another cabillion miles and then she passed it on to her sister, Beth. But at this point, the Sentra earned the name Hoopty. It wasn't so lovely anymore--or maybe they just didn't appreciate its bare-bones beauty. Either way, Hoopty went on for many more miles after I handed it over.

We sat around a bonfire with the cousins the other night and after a few cocktails and a lot of laughs, Hoopty's name came up.

"Whatever happened to Hoopty?" I asked.

And soon everyone had a story from their days with Hoopty. It was a grand car, driving forever, getting us where we needed to be with dependability. Everyone had a chuckle or two, sharing stories of Hoopty like it was freakin' Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It was glorious remembering that car. And as our eyes all glazed over with fond remembrance, someone brought up how it came to be that we all parted with Hoopty.

It was donated to the Cancer Society or something grand, I don't remember. What I do remember is hearing how Josh (Beth's husband) made the poor decision to put in a John Denver tape in the stereo one long road trip day. And there it stayed......forever. No button pushing, screwdriver jabbing, stereo pounding would release Hoopty from its easy-listening hell. Poor Hoopty, and whoever happened to be riding in it, was permanently tortured by the sweet sappy sounds of John Denver and his guitar.

Yes, "Sunshine" could be heard at stoplights. "Annie's Song" went for miles on a weekend road trip. "Rocky Mountain High" was taken literally as it drove out west. It was all John Denver, all the time until no one could take it any longer. There was no turning it off, for the stereo could not eject 'ol John and the FM stations couldn't be tapped. It was either John Denver or silence. And I'm not sure silence was the worse of the two scenarios.

Josh told of driving in complete silence for hours on one trip until they could take it no longer. He and Beth succumbed and turned on the endless loop of spectacled magic gratis John Denver. As their ears screamed for mercy, "Grandma's Feather Bed" and "Thank God I'm a Country Boy" blasted from the feeble speakers in Hoopty's girth. Josh actually admits to opening the windows, sticking his head out, and screaming for the pain to end.

It never did. Hoopty went on to the Cancer Society with "Country Roads" permanently lodged in its abdomen. I'm sure they could have easily had the stereo removed and had Hoopty fixed up, but somehow it just didn't seem right. It was best to let Hoopty go, and to let John Denver go with it.