Name That Car

My daughter has a friend who recently got her first car. She is a great kid. Bright, hard working, headed in the right direction. She's posted a picture or two of her new ride and seems excited, which she should be. (I was in my second semester of medical school before I had a car.) Apparently she's been struggling with a name for the vehicle and the other evening posted her success in finding a name to her liking.

I've had quite a few cars since that first blue rabbit. I have never named a one. I have called more than one of them a name on occasion but never actually given one a name like Jet or Red or whatever.

This episode recalled a time back in high school when I was out with a few friends. We were driving about 60 miles to Portland, Oregon to see either Katherine Hepburn on stage or Bette Midler in her Divine Miss M days. Both great. Can't remember which. At any rate, we were traveling in my friend Jesse's 1950-something bathtub Volvo, a car that was steeped in Bohemian cool. Unfortunately, the electrical system was both elderly and temperamental and was manifesting its failings by cutting the headlights in and out.

Because of the car's age and bad habits, Jesse decided we had better take backroads which was fine until it started to get really dark. Meanwhile, one of the girls along on the ride had felt the need to talk pretty much nonstop from takeoff to landing. Not only had she felt it, she indulged it! By the time we were having to make our third or so stop for malfunctioning headlights we had pretty much had enough of the monologue. As we pulled to a stop in the middle of nowhere, in the dark, frustrated at the frequent malfunctions, our loquacious friend took a break from the nonstop chatter and chirped up, "It's so cute. Does your car have a name?" Opening the door to go wiggle the wires under the hood once more, Jesse shot back without so much as missing a beat, "Yeah. F**khead!"

If memory serves me, the ride got better after that. I guess it's all in the name.