Why Is It White?!
Since seeing the Camaro in its dark home under the bridge way back in the fall of ’86, I’d been in love with that car. I knew it wasn’t in great shape with its rotting floor boards and faulty heat, but I loved it.
When Larry’s brother, Danny, found a SHIT HAPPENS bumper sticker for us, the car was finally perfect.
While I never loved the Camaro quite as much as I loved our old Ford pickup truck, and I never paid a dime toward the purchase of either vehicle, I always assumed that Camaro was mine.
But one day, I discovered: it wasn’t.
Larry said he had a surprise for me. “It’s outside!” he said. “C’mon!”
I walked outside. I saw nothing.
“The fuckin’ car!” he squealed. “Look at the fuckin’ car!”
I didn’t know what car he was talking about. I didn’t see our car anywhere.
And then, suddenly, I did.
It was white. My beautiful black Camaro was now an ugly, colorless white. I hated it. “It’s fuckin’ white!” I yelled. “Why is it white?!”
“It’s fuckin’ beautiful!” Larry said, ignoring my distaste. “The guys in the shop fixed it up!”
“I hate it,” I said. “Can you paint it black again?”
“Nope.” Larry shrugged and went inside. I followed him.
What else could I do?
A week went by, then two. Then Larry came home with our ugly white car … changed again.
This time, there were bright red stripes running all the way from the hood on the front of the car, over the top, and down to the spoiler in the back of the car.
BRIGHT. RED. STRIPES.
Larry never asked me before painting the car, which made it even worse for me. I was never a fan of change, but I really loved our PLAIN BLACK car.
“What did you do!” I shrieked. “You made it worse!”
“They’re racing stripes!” Larry said, as though we were both suddenly huge NASCAR fans.
I hated the stripes. I hated the red. I hated the white underneath. And I now officially hated the car.
Larry absolutely ignored my displeasure. “It’s fuckin’ great!” he said. “We’ve got a race car now!” He put his big arm around me and squeezed, believing I would like it more if he told me how much he liked it.
I did not.
“Can we get the truck back?” I asked meekly.
“Fuck no!” Larry said. “That truck was a piece of shit! This car runs great, and now it looks great, too.”
He laughed as though I’d been joking, shook his head in disbelief, and headed inside, leaving me outside with the ugliest Camaro I’d ever seen.
I considered jumping on the car, denting it, ruining the already ruined vehicle. But I couldn’t think of any way to actually get what I wanted.
And when I didn’t get what I wanted, Larry simply ignored me. He just laughed at me and walked away.
In Larry’s world, there was no reason to ask me for my opinion about things like painting the car and/or adding racing stripes. Really it was his car, his apartment, his life – and I was just along for the ride.
So I gave up and walked inside, too. It’s impossible to complain when no one cares about your opinion. From then on, we had a white car with red racing stripes. I never said another word about it.