The ballad of Little Mama...

So I had this minivan, right? I bought it when I was 25. And right about now, you’re asking yourself something like, “Why in God’s name would a young red-blooded American male, still full of piss and vinegar and the stuff that makes red-blooded American males act the way they do, buy a minivan by choice?” Well, if you’ve read my previous blogs, you know that at one time I had an Acura Integra. I bought it with well over 140,000 miles, but its usefulness, nor its ability to wreak havoc at the hands of a well-trained (or stupid—sometimes it’s disturbing how fine the line can be) pilot were not quite exhausted. I got the tired old thing up to over 100 miles per hour before I was tagged by a state trooper. I’m still paying for that one, in that, to cover the fine, I had to work for UPS during the Christmas season, and the knees were just never the same. (Hey, you try jumping down from a rolling UPS truck carrying a computer [still in the shipping crate, natch] repeatedly for thirteen hours a day for two months and then tell me how you feel, and we’ll talk.)

Anyway, in order to reduce the chances that anything like that would happen again (I am my father’s son, after all, and driving like a maniac is in my genes), I wanted something slow. A Volvo wagon? A VW microbus? I found this lovely GMC Safari in Schaumburg. It was owned for its entire 130,000-mile life by the same family. They had all the maintenance records. Hell, they still had the original window sticker. Not a spot of rust on it. The interior was perfect, the A/C ice cold, brand new tires. Also, it was very, very slow. Plus, as a musician, I relished the thought of any vehicle that could haul any and every piece of musical gear I own, all at once. I took it home.

I am of the opinion, however misguided, that complex inanimate objects, like computers, or motorcycles, or bass guitars, or, in particular, cars, have a sentience of their own, and that, if they like you, they’ll do nice things for you, like get you home even when the needle has read below the ‘E’ for the past 50 miles and you have 25 cents in your pocket. Or, you forget to change the oil for, oh, say, 15,000 miles and they just keep right on truckin’. I’ve had cars like that. The minivan—whose name was, as mentioned in a previous post, Little Mama—was not like that. I think it was pissed at me for removing it from its loving household and introducing it to the world of a piss-poor grad student who was moonlighting as a bassist. Let me tell you how I arrived at this conclusion.

On a vehicle with over 100,000 miles, you expect stuff to break. Fine. So when the exhaust system—complete and entire from the headers back—decided to fall off after two months of ownership, I just shrugged and handed over my credit card. Same with the alternator the next month. Same with the water pump the next month. Oh, and when I hit that rock and slashed the sidewall of one of my still-fairly new front tires. Ah, but this time, when I took it to the shop and requested that they order an identical replacement, was I surprised when they told me that that particular tire was no longer available? Yes, I was. Oh well—so it’s got three ballsy raised-white-letter tires and one whitewall. These things happen.

All righty, but after two years, three alternators, two water pumps, two power steering pumps, an A/C compressor, an exhaust system, and so on and so forth, things started to get old. And this is nothing, when compared to the weird shit that would break on the thing. For example---

I pull up at my friend Ed’s house. He’s on the driveway, sweeping or something, and as I get out, he says, “Hey, do you know that you’re leaking antifreeze?” I look between Little Mama’s front wheels, and sure enough, there’s a bright green puddle forming there. “Well, dammit,” I say, and open the hood. Not only is it leaking from the water pump that was at that time two months old, but the power steering pump is sitting at a crazy angle. I wait long enough for the engine to cool down so I can add coolant, then I drive my bad self back to DeKalb and make a detour for the shop that was thankfully within walking distance to my apartment.

I get a call the next day. It’s John, the mechanic. We’re well on first-name terms by this time. He asks an ominous question—“How much do you like this van?” Well, by this time, I fucking hate it, but do I have enough jack to by another car? Not even close. I do, however, have the ever-useful credit card, which by this time is dangerously close to the limit.

What has happened is that the power steering pump bracket has broken. Don’t ask me how something like this happens—I have no idea either. What’s even cooler, according to John, is that, instead of one bracket for each underhood accessory—alternator, compressor, power steering pump, what have you--GM decided to use one big horseshoe-shaped bracket on the front of the engine to which all accessories are attached. The bottom line: to replace this bracket, all the accessories have to come off, including the A/C compressor, which will have to be recharged with freon (very expensive, all by itself.)

Well, with no other option, and with my credit card whimpering softly to itself in the tight confines of my wallet, I tell John to go ahead. The van runs great for about another two months, when a mysterious short pops up that causes the taillight and instrument panel light fuses to blow as soon as I turn on the headlights. This problem takes a little longer to sort out. It turns out to be a short in one of the front turn signals. The boys at the shop are mystified—they’ve never seen this before.

Now things get weird. I have owned this thing for a little over a year at this point. By this time I have graduated and have gainful employ. I get home from work, and I am still living with my folks. I pull into my parents’ driveway, where my dad is standing and having a smoke. I get out, briefcase in hand. My dad gestures with his cigarette.

“D’you know that your car is smoking?” I turn around, and, sure enough, steam is wafting out through the grille and from under the hood. I open the hood and find that the entire engine compartment is covered in a fine spray of antifreeze. The radiator—this is the second one—is blown. I curse and slam the hood.

This time I take it to a mechanic my father has recommended. I get the van back on a Thursday. On Saturday, my dad and I drive Little Mama to Home Depot. It’s running fine, so I’m all smiley. When we get to the parking lot, I attempt to shut the engine off, and the fucking key won’t turn. I physically cannot shut off the ignition. My father tries as well. With no other option, we leave the engine running. I wait in the car while my dad gets what he needs from Home Depot. He gets back in and says, “Well, let’s just drive on back home. We’ll open the hood and figure out a way to shut the engine off from there.”

I swear I am not making this up: When I get back to my folks’ house, I pull the hood release lever. It comes off in my hand—the whole hood release cable just pulls out of the dashboard. The engine is, of course, still running, and now there is no way to open the hood. My father and I stand on the driveway smoking cigarettes and scratching our heads until the van runs out of gas two hours later.

Well, of course I take it back to the shop and go postal. I can’t conceive of how they could have screwed up the ignition while replacing the radiator. Neither can they, but they graciously replace the ignition cylinder and fix the hood release free of charge.

Oh, and did I mention that, when I bought the thing, it had not a single speck of rust on it? I believe I did. After about a year, the rocker panels (the parts of the body underneath the doors) had rusted out completely, leaving interestingly jagged remnants of bodywork sticking out. Numerous friends cut their legs on these. A girl I am taking out tears a vicious run in her pantyhose on one, and refuses to go out with me again.

Okay, so, now it’s March of 2001. In April, I will have owned Little Mama for two years, and officially I hate it. I have called it every conceivable name; I have spat on it, kicked it, and, if you look at the three remaining tires with their oh-so-ballsy raised white letters, you will see that the outermost half of each letter, the half closest to the tread part of the tire, is worn completely off. This is from me, in my impotent rage, throwing the van into corners so viciously that the tires just fold under and the van is literally running on the sidewalls. I am super-pissed, and my credit card had long since been maxed out. But, the thing is rear-wheel-drive, and there’s still snow on the ground, so there’s still some tail-out fun to be had. Now, before you condemn me for beating on the thing, and say to yourself, “Well, Jesus, Jay, that’s why the thing broke all the time—you beat the shit out of it.” Keep in mind that a) it’s a minivan, and you just can’t do the things in it that would have gotten me in trouble in the Acura—e.g., the steering is alarmingly loose at speed, so I keep it under 75 mph on the expressway; b) it gets really shitty gas mileage, so I can’t afford to drive it like a nut; and c) I use it pretty much to commute to work in rush hour traffic, so there’s little opportunity to get up to shenanigans. Besides, anyone who’s ever driven in snow will tell you that you don’t have to be stupid to lose control; it just happens. The fun part is doing deliberately.

So here I am in a snow-encrusted parking lot, turning hot laps with the ass end somewhere in the next county (which I have to admit, you don’t often see done in a minivan. I wonder what that looks like from the outside). Anyway, halfway through a beautiful left-hand sweeper, the power steering pump quits. Now, with no power assist, and with the van still well-sideways at well over forty miles per hour, I go careening gaily off course and into a large snowdrift. It takes a large tow truck to extricate Little Mama thence.

I think to myself, Well, shit—every time I fix something, something else breaks, so I’ll just drive it like this, with no power steering. Have you ever tried to drive a car that normally has power-assisted steering without it? It’s not easy. Not impossible, but it certainly makes driving a chore, and what used to be three-point turns become 25-point turns. I make it for two months before my father catches me driving the thing in this state, and offers me this alternative: he will pay to get the van fixed if I will agree to sell it. My forearms aching in acknowledgement, I nod wearily.

So now it’s May, and the sky is blue and the grass is growing nicely and birds are singing and little furry bunnies are hopping around and I have listed Little Mama for sale in the paper. I list all the options it has, and some of the newer bits that have been installed. I omit from the description the fact that the fucking thing has a curse. About a week after I place the ad, a nice little Hispanic family shows up. Young guy, about my age, mid-20’s, with a pretty young wife, and a six-month-old baby in the back seat of a beat-up Nissan Sentra—red in color, with funny white fender flares. This will be important later.

The guy—his name is Juan—takes it for a spin. He offers me $1300 on a van I paid almost $4000 just over two years before. I agree.

I run into the house, saying, “He’ll take it.”

My father’s eyes narrow into slits. “Did you print up a bill of sale?”

I pshaw with dismissal. “Naw—they seem nice. What do I need a bill of sale for?”

“Just do it,” says my dad, the sly old fox. “You never know; they might be drug dealers.”

“They’re not drug dealers, Dad, for Christ’s sake,” I say, but I acquiesce to his wishes. I print up two copies. I sign both, and Juan signs both. We each get a copy, and Juan drives off in Little Mama, his wife and child following in their red Sentra. I am sure that is the last I will ever see of Little Mama, and I dance a little jig on the driveway in celebration.

July, 2001, and I am tooling along in my Honda Accord station wagon—Magoo—on the return side of a trip to visit a buddy at Southern Illinois University, when my cell phone goes off.

“Jay Olaszek.”

“Yes, Mister Olaszek, this it Detective Brian McHugh with the Illinois State Police, narcotics division.” My testicles shrink noticeably.

“Y-Y-Yes...er, how can I help you, Detective?”

“Are you the owner of a red 1988 GMC Safari?”

I swallow. Hard. Something in my throat goes click.

“Well, I was, but I sold it. Two months ago.”

“Well,” says Detective McHugh, “The serial number comes back as belonging to you.”

“Really? Well, like I said, I sold it.”

“Uh-huh. Can you prove that?”

“Well,” I say, with an inward sigh of relief, “yeah. I mean, I have a bill of sale, and, like, stuff.” Thanks, Dad.

“That’s good,” says the detective, “because if you can’t prove that you no longer own this vehicle, you have some explaining to do.”

“Why, whatever is the problem, officer?”

Detective McHugh clears his throat. “This past weekend, we recovered your van with over 66 million dollars of cocaine in the back.”

I pull over. I talk with Detective McHugh a while longer, and agree to come down to the station the next day with my bill of sale. When I walk in the door, my parents are sitting at the kitchen table. My father looks calm as a cucumber; my mother less so. She looks up at me as I walk in; has she been crying? It’s hard to say, but I’m gonna bet yes.

“Did you know the State Police are looking for you?”

I explain the situation as best I can. My mother goes to bed; my father and I have a beer and discuss some things. We agree that it’s best to wait until we see what happens at the police station the next day before we start talking with the lawyer.

I get up bright and early and head on down the State Police headquarters, Division 5, in Joliet, right next to the Illinois State Penitentiary. I have my bill of sale cradled gently but firmly in both hands. Detective McHugh greets me cordially, and I show him my bill of sale. It turns out that the gentleman who bought the van, Juan something-or-other, has been wanted along with his twin brother for almost ten years for his involvement with drug trafficking. He has not used an alias to sign the bill of sale. I identify him in a mug shot. It turns out that the street value of the cocaine recovered from my van is to date the largest recorded in Will County history. Remember, Joliet is in Will County. The police caught him and his brother loading bags of cocaine from the trunk of a red Nissan Sentra (with funny white fender flares) into my van. There was another five or so million in the trunk of the Nissan.

You can read about this in the papers, if you have some time to kill. Just go to any library that has copies of Will County newspapers on microfiche and hunt around in July of 2001. It was on the front page of one or two of them, if memory serves.

As an epilogue, Detective McHugh asks me to accompany him out to the impound yard to positively identify the van. There it is, in all its rusted, three raised-white-letter-tires-and-one-whitewall glory. It still has the Christian fish bumper emblem, and the “Saint Francis Spartans” sticker is still in the back window.

Cursed? You tell me.