Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Several Images in Search of Resonance

When I started this blog, it was surely something different.  I think I envisioned that others would share their stories more than they have, that someone other than me might want to shatter what still seems a remarkably powerful taboo in American culture and talk a little bit about money.  Or, more the point, the lack of money. Moreover, I must have assumed back in 2009 that my little peak into crisis wouldn't have lasted this long. Or, if it did, that things would have gotten much worse.

We still have our house, underwater though it may be; I still have prospects, in the future, assuming my meritocratic luck improves.

But here I am on a rainy morning, more than two years hence, finally articulating just how difficult the original goal of detailing so many small frustrations must have been. Finally articulating how many posts I've begun only to abandon because negotiating the silences that my wife and I need to keep as well as the silences that we don't recognize as such.

Here I am on a rainy morning, more than two years hence, thinking, what the hell happened?

***

Two days ago, on a rain-slick morning, I drove down to the university I attend for a meeting. One of the first of the school year. As my car slithered down Harrison Avenue, I was thinking myself late, very late. Traffic. A police car. A firetruck. Paramedics. To my left, a burnished gold sedan, early 90s edition, with its black plastic grill punched out, it seemed, by a small shrub. The airbag blown. The hood crumpled like a November leaf. The doors cratered, concave.

How could such a tiny shrub cause that? I thought.


Then I saw the black Mercedes--late model, glossy as if just detailed--angled hood-first into the front porch of brick two story house. And standing beside the car, a young man talking into a cell phone, looking up and down as if he cannot believe.

Strange, but I didn't tell anyone--not even my wife--about that scene for almost two days.

***

When I used to work in the Bay Area. I'd hop off the train and head directly to the nearest Starbucks. Grande nonfat latte. Sometimes, I'd stop by the same kiosk after lunch. Grande nonfat latte.  Inevitably, around 3:30, when my body began to tell me I ought to be napping, I'd stroll over for that third. Grande nonfat latte.

This, along with a proclivity for fatty food might explain why my belly protrudes several inches beyond my belt.

***

Every once in a while, when distraction sets in, I'll spend an inordinate amount of time looking at the websites for auto manufacturers. It's a vestige, I suppose, of childhood and the boyish allure of sports cars, exotics, etcetera. Of course, I've never owned the kind of car that I used to read about, semi-obsessively, in the pages of Car and Driver or Road & Track. A 14 year-old boy's version of arithmetic simply does not account adequately for things like insurance, emergencies, or a proclivity for greasy food. Still, there was a point in my life when a Boxster, if not a 911, did seem feasible. But now, economics have changed for me.  Now, I can imagine myself delighted to drive a four-cylinder sedan for the remainder of my life. Now, I drive a subcompact.

When my wife and I bought our current car, we both had decent-paying jobs. The shock of the financial crisis had not yet trickled down to us, and we, genuinely, thought we were getting a good deal.

In retrospect, our timing couldn't have been worse: we missed the so-called "Cash for Clunkers;" we missed the dealerships unloading inventory in desperation; we missed that brief window before the credit went dry when salesmen likely went beyond "reasonable offers" because they needed the commission. Instead, we walked into a showroom where, even though I did bargain, we witnessed upselling at its finest.

The odd thing is that, now, our car has held more of its value than our house has over the same period of time. This is, of course, deeply contrary to conventional wisdom, to common sense.  And yet....

***

A few nights ago, lying awake in some synergistic combination of a lousy sleep schedule and anxiety, I had this sort of waking dream. I saw that car dealership. I saw the salesman standing over a charcoal gray, four-cylinder sedan, chatting with me about next steps.

But then, contrary to history, he shook his head. Maybe he leaned in a bit closer and said: You don't really need a moon-roof, do you? You could give that money to Oxfam, instead.  


Let's put you in the base model. 


Yeah. It's just a dream. Imagine a business--and its representatives--downselling. Can you? Still, I can't shake the feeling that in that brief fantasia, the only opportunity cost that matters is revealed.      

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