At the end of the winter in 1989, the heater on my Tercel gave out. Anyone who has lived through a Minnesota winter knows that a heater in your car is pretty much the most important luxury you should afford yourself. Leather seats? Nah, vinyl will do. Radio? I can sing just fine. Carpeted floor? No, you'll just be putting rubber floor mats down anyway to catch the slush off your boots. Heat though, non negotiable. I place before you the question, which caveman do you think lived longer the one with fire, or the one without?
Now, with the caveman mentality amidst, I must tell you that I decided to beat my chest, make a few grunting noises, and without any formal training, fix the heater on the car. I did some study on it, and proceeded to remove all the bolts from the dash. I think I may have read a few pages out of order or who knows maybe the publisher printed them that way, but the dash never actually came off the car. — To this day, I'm not even sure if the heater was somewhere inside there. Likely it was in the engine compartment. — Not my problem ... well, ok, it was my problem, but only for as long as it took for me to drive to a dealership named Toyota City. I drove onto the lot with the full tail-between-my-legs preparedness of having them fix the heater and the dash.
However, before ever getting a chance to speak to a mechanic, I was entranced by a set of taillights that I swear were calling me closer. They were HUGE, and looked like eyes staring at me. The car, as most on dealership lots are, was perfectly clean and sparkled against the snowy ground below it like a bar of gold. I walked straight over to it and was swiftly attacked like a mouse in an open field under a sky of hawks. Car Dealers. Surely they saw the look in my eyes and knew that I had already made the deal in my mind. (which technically, I had ).
Here was a 1984 Toyota Camry DX. A box to most, but to me it was a natural upgrade in the world of a Toyota owner. The interior was not plush by any means of todays standards, but to my -then- level of standards, it was a luxury beast. A four passenger, classy, golden brown piece of brilliant machinery. This was also my first venture into a vehicle with an automatic transmission. Luxury. The radio had more speakers than 2, and the ride was as smooth as it's squared off body panels. Perfect. Mine. I drove off the lot with it about an hour later.
For four wonderful spring months this car performed like a champ. I jazzed it up with extra pinstripes along the windows, and across the headlights. Not sure why. Guess I just wanted to find a way to personalize it as mine and pinstripes seemed the least invasive, as, to me, this car was pretty darn near perfect. Ran like a dream, and yes, I pointed out the taillights to people every chance I got.
On Memorial Day weekend that year, I even phoned up a friend and we headed off on a three day journey out across South Dakota to see Mount Rushmore. We made it all the way out to Wall City on the first night, took witness of the great mountain carving the following day, and headed back, staying in a little bungalow cabin along a river just outside of Souix City, making it back to Minneapolis, all within the three day holiday timeline. Perfect Road trip, all thanks to a set of taillights that said hello.
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