My dad drove a junker. Forever. It was an old blue Chevy Caprice, one headlight dangling from its wires where the front bumper was still smashed in from an accident. One visit home I borrowed it to go to a restaurant and upon leaving the restaurant discovered the car no longer went in reverse. I had to put the car in neutral, get out, get in front and push the thing out of its parking space. Got home: Dad, you need a new car. If money's a problem, I'll buy you one. No, no, Son. I love that car. It's got another 100,000 miles on it. How do you park the thing, Father? Oh, I just pull into parking spots where it rolls out downhill or where you can drive straight ahead out the other side.
After Dad died, I sold it to the guy down the street for a dollar. He was a cop and happy to have it since the cops had a garage that would fix up the junkers to run little better for cheap. The cops in his precinct liked to drive junkers to work. Work was a bad neighborhood where the denizens vandalized the cops' personal cars parked near the police station.
