Andy Acura: Driven to Succeed

My son Joel is a lawyer now.

Joel graduated from University of Miami Law School, passed the Florida bar exam, and began working for a Miami law firm. Then the first question on each family member's lips became: How much money will he make and will he give some to me?

I reminded Joel's eager siblings that Joel has student loans to pay off, an apartment in Miami to maintain, and money to send home, first and foremost, to his mom. After all, I'm the person who birthed him, went to bat for him against frustrated elementary teachers, and paid for his car, "Andy" Acura.

Which evoked the second question on everyone's lips: Will Joel park battered and bruised Andy amongst the BMWs in the lawyers' lot, or will he leave Andy discreetly at home and jog to work, keeping in shape in case there's the occasional ambulance to chase?

Andy Acura and Joel go back to high school days in Oregon when it was determined (by Joel) that he needed his own car. Having idled curbside for him to finish a mind-numbing array of sports practices, I quickly concurred.

It seemed like a simple procedure. We visit used car lots. We find Joel a car. We buy it. We get ripped off. We persuade ourselves we got a bargain. End of story.

But Joel wasn't sure what he wanted - he'd know it when he saw it. That kept us traipsing from lot-to-lot with our only acquisition being large cuds of gum from the gumball machines.

Since a family friend was getting married in Eugene, we decided to arrive early that day and go car-hunting before the nuptials. But it was the same old story as we visited a variety of dealerships, leaving bouncy salespeople commission-less and deflated.

"Let's try Salem," Joel suggested, as I checked my watch. "That's our last hope."

In the state capital, we happened on a seedy car lot with an electric fence and two chained Dobermans guarding the premises. They were about to close for the day but allowed us a quick look before a portcullis gate was to slam shut and the Dobermans were to be unleashed.

And there it was - a gleaming metallic red Acura Integra with a sporty rear end, 1991, 160,000 miles, $4,995.

"I want this one," said Joel.

"Well, shouldn't we kick the tires and stuff?" I asked, as one of the Dobermans snarled and drooled. "On second thought, let's hightail it to the wedding."

We transacted the deal, and Joel drove his new car to the church in Eugene, arriving long before I did. Apparently the vehicle had get-up-and-go. I dubbed the car "Andy," and he seemed to promise utter loyalty and dependability from that moment forward.

Andy eventually headed back and forth to Indiana for four years of college and then to Miami for three years of law school. The odometer kept turning over but nothing much went wrong until the front bumper fell off, which Joel repaired with duct tape. And then there were some fender-bender accidents, with Joel using the settlement money for law books.

When I last saw Andy, his bumper was dragging on the street again, causing sparks. His only A/C was an open window, and his muffler was anything but muffled.

Yet Joel plans to drive Andy until he stops cold, for he and his car have a history together. And you just can't get that in a nameless new ride.

Learn more about this author, Karen Williams.
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