essay #3

so, this is essay #3, for which we were instructed to write a descriptive essay about a person we have strong feelings about. i took kind of a different route...let me know if it works...

Consuela

I called him Consuela. It was intended as a term of endearment; it was a nickname, like something a friend would call another friend, because they’re friends. But he didn’t like it, and he was quite intentional on making that clear. One night, soon after I’d conceived of his new identity, I drove Consuela to the video store. Let me be plain that my intentions were perfectly innocent; I’m certain that my purpose was nothing more harmful than the purchasing of some type or another of generic “food-of-empty-calories” (insert whichever kind suits your fancy), and the renting of some type or another of generic “movie-of-empty-girlish-squealing-over-hot-boy” (again, open to your imagination).

Consuela, however, apparently still peeved about his new name, perceived of this action as somewhat less than ethical, which he made painfully clear by doing something that was, as I thought, not what Jesus would’ve done. I opened the rickety driver’s side door, and depressed the rusted power lock button that would keep any misguided deviant from wrongfully partaking of the collection of moldy trash accumulated on the once-blue carpeting in the backseat. Excited and overly eager for my prospective evening of hormone stimulation and artery clogging, I closed the door. “Blast,” I thought as I noticed my car’s headlights still piecing through the bitter night air. I felt around my purse for the Darth Vader action figure key chain attached to my car keys, and was rather disturbed to find my purse devoid of anything except for a wallet quite empty of cash, some leaking raspberry-scented hand sanitizer, and a collection of old gum wrappers, some of which were unexpectedly stiff from the clumps of already-chewed gum stuck inside. “Ew,” I stated, momentarily distracted by the distressing thought of petrified deposits of my own saliva rotting at the bottom of my purse, with nothing more than flimsy paper to keep them from contaminating my wallet, my hands, nay, my entire life. “A-ha!” I declared, remembering the hand sanitizer and vigorously applying it to my infected skin. “That was close.”

“Blast,” I thought as I remembered my missing keys and dying car battery. Dreading what I would find, I reluctantly peered into the window. My worst fears were realized: there was ol’ Darth, putting forth a desperate but futile effort to look evil while hanging by the tip of his glow-in-the-dark light saber from the ignition of a pint-sized Geo Metro. I heaved a sigh of frustration. “Crimeny…” I thought warily. “Not again.”

“Come on, Consuela…” I pleaded, still glaring through the tinted glass. “This isn’t funny. Open up.”

I knew it was useless. It was always useless. Consuela just stared at me. He snickered a little, as if to say I’d gotten what I deserved.

He was bitter. There’s just no way around it. This bitterness was rooted far deeper than a simple annoyance at a new nickname. Let’s face it, Consuela had seen better days. He was old. And he smelled – there’s really no delicate way to put this – he smelled like pizza grease. It wasn’t just a subtle scent you noticed if you got too close. When you were within a five-foot parameter of Consuela, the very air you breathed felt like being inside the essence of fast-food America. It was hard to know what to do, because, of course, no one wanted to hurt Consuelo’s feelings. It wasn’t his fault, after all. How could he help what he smelled like? He probably didn’t know he smelled like pizza grease. I mean, if I had smelled like pizza grease for all my life, I’m sure I wouldn’t notice it. It would just smell like normal air. It’s a pity, when you think about it, that Consuela was never able experience the joy that comes with breathing air that doesn’t smell like slimy food.

Well, pitiful or not, Consuela would not budge. I begged, I pleaded, I shouted, I cried, I blackmailed…but to no avail. He just sat there, old and smelly, basking in my desperation. Darth seemed to be having a good time of it as well. Deprived in his diminished form of the evil doings of his former life, he seemed both satisfied by my misery and proud of Consuela’s unquenchable malevolence.

At any rate, I knew what I had to do; I’d done it at least six times before. Defeated, I gingerly reached into my purse, careful to avoid contact with any archaic wads of germ-infested gum. I pulled out my wallet and fished out two silver coins. “If Dad’s already asleep, I’m blaming you,” I sneered as I wagged a finger in Consuela’s direction. This did nothing to change his attitude. He knew, of course, that the blame would inevitably fall on my shoulders. I knew it too, and as I stomped off toward the phone booth, I tried to fight off the tentacles of anger slowly taking hold of my psyche. I inserted my quarters into the phone. My dad answered. And, as was the nature of my luck, he’d just fallen asleep. He muttered something to the affect of “taking away your car…this is the last time…” He showed up ten minutes later, the imprint of his pillowcase carved into his cheek. Wordlessly he handed me a key and stumbled back into his car, swerving off into the night.

It wasn’t until the next morning that I had the chance to tell my dad what had really happened. “Consuela?” he asked, confused. “Who's Consuela?”
“Dad,” I said, annoyed (as teenagers usually are), “the car?”
“You named my car Consuela?”
“Yes…”
“My car is a boy.”
“Yeah…” I rolled my eyes (as teenagers usually do).
“Consuela is a girl’s name.”
“Oh. Err…dang it.”
No wonder Consuela was bitter.