My greatest pride and joy in life is that I stand on my own two feet. My legs, though chubby and short as some would argue, has taken me places. I’ve walked the Arctic Circle, under the shimmering northern lights; I’ve skipped along the pebble streets of some of the most exotic European cities, following in the footsteps of assassinated or beheaded royalties, literary giants, brilliant artists, and unparallel, even by today’s standards, international music sensations. I’ve trekked through multiple UNESCO World Heritage sites, rampaged down the streets of Tokyo in a frenzy shopping spree, navigated through the labyrinth of alleyways in Shanghai and St. Petersburg and venice and conquered the Scandinavian fjords. My legs take me places.
But now I am stuck. It's been three weeks since my arrival in the Land of the
Brave, I am still immobile. Because no longer can my legs take me places. They
can take me down the block to get a closer view of the freeway and some shrubs
and snow banks and stretches and stretches of infinite asphalt that stand between
me and civilization. But my legs can’t take me anywhere beyond that. Not anymore.
I attempted to remedy my pathetic predicament by pursuing a leasing deal that seemed quite the bargain. Until, of course, my international driver’s license and a lack of any credit history in conjunction with my current “homeless” status landed me right on the very top of any financial institutions’ high risk profile. The dealership was even considering sending my lease application to Homeland Security. Really? I should just be grateful that they don’t know I’m living in the basement. That’d probably be the last cue they need to conclude that I’m some foreign terrorist, plotting away in my dingy underground abode, assembling home-made bombs and bidding my time to declare war on this Land of the Brave and Paranoid.
I just want a car. To be absolutely clear, I don’t actually want one, but I need one. One that runs smoothly free of any spluttering sound pollutions and preferably has heat and doesn’t look too ghetto. I have already compromised to a suburban life at the mere age of 24; I’d very much prefer not to drive anything that resembles a weathered metal box on clunking wheels. Honestly, I don’t think that’s too much to ask for.
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