I got the Elixir of Knowledge to brewing, then traipsed over to the living room window. I slowly, with great trepidation, pulled down on the cord, pulling up the blinds to reveal the truth.
A truth that stares at me from a frozen driveway. This is no dream, no nightmare from which I can awake. It happened.
I bought a Taurus. A four-door Taurus sedan.
My body slumps into the Chair as my heart cries out in anguish.
Where is my convertible?
My sporty icon of glistening metal?
My mind clucks its tongue and answers with a surprised chuckle.
You bought a Taurus, son. Whaddaya expect? Your life is over, kiddo.
There it sits. In my driveway. My car for the foreseable future.
I get a really big cup of the Elixir and retreat to the Chair. The hot, brown liquid reminds me to be a man. Accept the consequences of your decision and move on.
I shall do just that. And to do that I must claim ownership to this aberration squatting outside the house. And to do that I must name it.
I've had some great names for cars in the past, each name giving a hint or image of my perception of the vehicle.
The Damascus Toad
The Kosher Dill of Canaan
Lazurus
The Thunderchicken
Names completing the connection between man and machine.
By the third cup of Elixir, I had the name for our latest car.
Phlegm.
Yes. Phlegm.
It's the color of pre-pneumonia sputum.
It has that morphology and shape of a loogie.
It comes with a cold.
And it's hard to get out.
That last item is a source of humor to TechnoBoy.
Watching me trying to get out of Phlegm, he said, is like watching the birth of a Serengeti water buffalo on Public Television.
There's a lot of grunting and groaning, then "plop", suddenly something is struggling to get upright.
Truth is truth, eh?
And outta the mouths of babes. . . and outta Phlegm.