Transportation

One of the last gifts my grandmother imparted me was to help me finance a reliable means of transportation. When I moved back to rural Florida, it became necessity to have a car. Decent work was at least an hour's drive from home, still is (but the pay is better, right?). The family car, a Ford Taurus from 1988, had seen it's fair slice of roadway; over three hundred seventy seven thousand miles to be exact. So we retired her, and used what little equity was left in her bones to make a down payment on a semi-shiny nearly-new car. Gram was happy that she could help me finance something that would help rebuild my credit, and I was happy to have a car that wouldn't leave me stranded on the roadside like a cheap hooker after an all-nighter.

Right about the time the Accord started to settle in, a flyer came from the dealership. It promised to get me in a shiny new car and wipe the slate clean. Gram fell for it hook line and sinker, and she garroted me with the line in the process. The dealer reeled us both in on the hope that, while we would be paying more over a longer period, the car would be newer and last me longer. The truth was, that in order to get the newer car, Ihad to be taken off the paperwork. The bottom had fallen out of the bottom of the economy at this point. My first boyfriend used and abused my credit and my emotions like an old hand towel in a cheap motel room. They told me my credit was toxic, and that any hope there was to make a deal would require me to not be on the paperwork. Gram fretted about it, but decided it was best to proceed anyway. She said a short time after, that she probably wouldn't be around to see the car paid off. I shrugged it off, because I didn't want to think about it.

Here we are, less than a year later. When gram passed away, one of the first things dad brought up was what we should do with the car. I figured, and was told, that we could basically just continue paying on it until the financing was matured and then change the title over to my name. I've been paying on the car, as I should. The tag renewal comes in, and dad mentions that it still has the details for the Accord on it. In and among the details of the purchase, apparently, the dealer neglected to follow through on transferring the tag from the accord to the civic. They transferred the title into her name, just not the tag. After fishing through some paperwork, I find a note from the dealer guaranteeing that that were going to do so. I take this note, my proof of insurance, and the renewal notice to the local tax collector.

This is where my entire day went to hell. I explained my situation to the clerk. She pulls up some stuff on the computer. Apparently, she could transfer the registration to the new car but, because gram is deceased, she can't legally renew it. Additionally, since the registration was never officially changed, I've been driving around with an invalid tag for ten months (something you can be taken to jail for). I am, at this point on the verge of crying. In my head, all I can see is that I'm going to have to turn the car in, and that I'm going to lose my transportation (and by extension my livelihood). In the middle of my panic, I call dad then my partner. My dad was, as usual loud and manic with minimal actual help. It's always an absolute sense of urgency with him, and that just doesn't help. My partner on the other hand, gets angry. My partner deals with cars, sales and whatnot. He's mad, because the dealer screwed up, and failed to fulfill part of their end of the contract. He tells me what I need to do, and tries to instruct me how to do it. Unfortunately, I'm not the confrontational type, so ultimately he has to be the angry voice for me.

It's difficult for me to ask for help, from anyone. I have a deep-seated need for independence. Not purely out of wanting to be so, but more out of want to not be a burden. Often times, I'm resigned to let the business world shit on me because I can't voice myself. I enjoy that he wants to help me; that he's trying to help me. It doesn't make me feel any less guilty for accepting the help however. Still, it's a wonderful change of pace, to have a partner that is just that. Someone who will accept my gifts, but wont abuse the source until it's dried up completely; Someone who will try to help, even against my own willful urge to resist assistance.

I say thank you, but I never feel like I adequately convey how much I really do appreciate it....