I had made penny-pinching into an art form during the PIGS years (Poor Indian Graduate Student, an acronym no doubt coined by a vengeful ABCD). The policy was go for the cheapest item at the biggest discount. This worked fairly well, except sometimes.
With the used car, for example. A Japanese built Dodge that must have passed through more hands than the number of Jovian moons. After much consternation and handwringing, I reluctantly handed over six crisp hundred dollar bills to procure the shakatam (a beaten-up vehicle) from a fellow PIGS who had graduated to post-doc status. It worked well in dry weather. Come a hint of rain though, the car acted like a sulking lover. Highway or driveway, it would sputter, shake, and crawl to a dead stop. Further attempts at reviving the kinetic relationship met with rejection until the humidity markedly improved. When stranded, my exit strategy always involved walking to the nearest gas station and placing a call to Susan, soon to be my wife, or her brother-in-law, John. John was always obliging, Susan less so. She could not stand the sight of my temperamental partner and thus felt no compulsion to rescue me when the car left me in the cold.
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| Author caught searching for cables to jump start his dead Dodge |
Once, while her Chevy Chevette was in the repair shop, she was forced to catch a ride in my Dodge for an appointment outside the campus. The going was good until the weather turned misty. On the way back, the Dodge quit in mid-road. I rolled to a stop on the side and quickly stepped out, partly in a feeble effort to escape my prized passenger's wrath, partly to wave for help. The famed Southern hospitality came to the rescue. Despite my dark skin, unkempt facial hair, and destituteness signaled by the beaten up vehicle, a kindly gentleman pulled over and offered us a ride back.
Susan never forgave me for the trouble, although it didn't scuttle our wedding, which went ahead as planned. However, she got her revenge shortly thereafter.
After the marriage, the Chevy became the family car. Unable to part with my Dodge, I parked it near our apartment. The spot I chose was valued by other tenants because it was well-shaded from the harsh Southern sun by a large tree. Sathyan, our Telugu neighbor and post-doc in the university's pharmacy department, especially resented this because the spot was closer to his apartment than ours. Every time he saw me near the car, he gave me an ugly you-are-stealing-my-spot look.
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| Chevy became the family car |
Wedded to the family Chevy, I began to shun the Dodge. Bird droppings piled up on the windshield and Sathyan's resentment grew by the day. "How dare this guy park this piece of junk here permanently, never use it, and not let anyone else to use the spot?" he seemed to say, without uttering as much. Susan began to notice the tension and started asking questions.
"When are you going to get rid of that car?" she asked, as we were walking to our front door after a trip to the mall.
"Soon. I am looking for a buyer," I replied, at which she let out a burst of laughter so loud that I saw Babblu's mom peeking through the door to see what the commotion was about. But then Babblu's mom--another Telugu family lived opposite us--had always been curious about goings-on in the newlyweds' house. Whenever we met, she had one question. "Hey," she would taunt us, her eyes lighting up in a sly smile. "Why are your window curtains always closed?" While Susan giggled poking me in the ribs, I usually looked the other way, pretending not to hear the question.
One evening, returning to the apartment after a walk, we saw Sathyan drive by, perhaps going back to his lab for an evening shift. As he passed, he looked at us, ... and smiled.
"That was unusual, hmm," I said.
We got to the front door and I took out the house keys.
"What happened?" Susan asked, pulling me back by my shoulder.
"What happened what?" I said, turning around and looking in the direction she was looking. And then I noticed.
The car was gone.
"What, where's my car?" I shouted out as I ran toward the spot where it was parked. I looked up and down the parking lot as the realization sank in. Someone had towed the car away. Or someone had instigated someone to tow it away. Either way, the Dodge was gone.
I looked at Susan. She just stood there smiling. Weirdly, it resembled Sathyan's smile as he passed by us -- one of suppressed glee.
As for Susan's Chevy, it brought us safely to Washington when we moved from Georgia to take up my new job. Soon, we bought a new Honda Accord, but my PIGS penny-pinching habit lingered. I was reluctant to fork over the two-hundred dollars required for the Chevy to pass the Maryland state inspection. It was left alone unused in a parking spot in front of our townhouse. But not for long. This one had some value left in it. I placed an ad in the local paper and sold it for a cool seven hundred dollars cash.
"When are you going to get rid of that car?" she asked, as we were walking to our front door after a trip to the mall.
"Soon. I am looking for a buyer," I replied, at which she let out a burst of laughter so loud that I saw Babblu's mom peeking through the door to see what the commotion was about. But then Babblu's mom--another Telugu family lived opposite us--had always been curious about goings-on in the newlyweds' house. Whenever we met, she had one question. "Hey," she would taunt us, her eyes lighting up in a sly smile. "Why are your window curtains always closed?" While Susan giggled poking me in the ribs, I usually looked the other way, pretending not to hear the question.
One evening, returning to the apartment after a walk, we saw Sathyan drive by, perhaps going back to his lab for an evening shift. As he passed, he looked at us, ... and smiled.
"That was unusual, hmm," I said.
We got to the front door and I took out the house keys.
"What happened?" Susan asked, pulling me back by my shoulder.
"What happened what?" I said, turning around and looking in the direction she was looking. And then I noticed.
The car was gone.
"What, where's my car?" I shouted out as I ran toward the spot where it was parked. I looked up and down the parking lot as the realization sank in. Someone had towed the car away. Or someone had instigated someone to tow it away. Either way, the Dodge was gone.
I looked at Susan. She just stood there smiling. Weirdly, it resembled Sathyan's smile as he passed by us -- one of suppressed glee.
As for Susan's Chevy, it brought us safely to Washington when we moved from Georgia to take up my new job. Soon, we bought a new Honda Accord, but my PIGS penny-pinching habit lingered. I was reluctant to fork over the two-hundred dollars required for the Chevy to pass the Maryland state inspection. It was left alone unused in a parking spot in front of our townhouse. But not for long. This one had some value left in it. I placed an ad in the local paper and sold it for a cool seven hundred dollars cash.
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| Brand new Honda with temporary license plate |
And the Honda? Years later, beaten up, rusted, and given to unpredictable sputtering, I still drive the Accord.
And Susan asks, "When are you going to get rid of that thing and buy a new car?"
"Soon," I reply. "I am getting a truck."
She laughs!
And Susan asks, "When are you going to get rid of that thing and buy a new car?"
"Soon," I reply. "I am getting a truck."
She laughs!
[Updated: March 10, 2014]
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| Why is this man smiling? |
