The Scent of Freedom

On to Champion's interior. For winter break, I had planned to drive south until it was warm enough to camp in the vehicle, but the tour itinerary of my favorite band dictated otherwise. So I'll be sleeping in my car in Rhode Island. In December.

My friend Bear (yeah, that's his name. What.) said, "Eventually you just have to be cold. Might as well winterize it for Connecticut before you try sleeping in it in Wyoming."

Initially I priced out some high-tech insulating materials. Then it occurred to me that the word Connecticut is Native American in origin. Humans were winterizing for Rhode Island long before aerogel was invented. (They were also probably naming their children Bear.) I examine photos of lodgings of the eastern Pequots and determine that I'll need some waxed canvas and a layer each of leather, wool, and cotton.

But the first step is to craft a burrow for my pet rabbit, "Tugboat." Tuggie will have to remain below-decks at all times after the redesign: no matter how elegant my Pequot teepee roadster, it spoils the effect if I emerge from it shaking rabbit turds out of my hair.

Now that I'm out from under the vehicle and on to fabric selection for the interior, my mom has enthusiastically joined the project. From my parents' basement, aka the Cave of Wonders, she produces a custom-fit basin for Tuggie's litter box and another for his daily mound of timothy hay. We swab out the wheel wells with vinegar and lay in some fabric, some cedar chips, and a few urine-soaked paper towels. "Everywhere you want a rabbit, it has to smell like rabbit," Mom advises. "And put in some pin-up pics of girl rabbits."

Her point about the smell reminds me of something I've been meaning to mention. The literary heroes of my early teens did not devote nearly the amount of care to their appearance that I do. I plan to match them note for note in rail-riding, steamboat-steering, guitar-strumming, apple-stealing, and covert public urination, but circusninja is also rife with posts about stylish one-pieces and the best pedicures for touring the Colosseum. I make every effort to ensure that I smell like homegrown lavender extract and/or Froot Loops.

Jack Kerouac likely smelt of Sterno cans and unwashed denim. Mark Twain almost certainly smelled like a barnyard full of chain-smoking ducks.

Champion of the Undercarriage

The mechanics who examined "Bantha" handed me an itemized list of repairs needed, not expecting me to leave the shop, list in hand, and do all the work myself. I was lucky to have found Travis, a coworker who let me attach - er, apprentice - myself to him.
Apart from the repairs list and the loden-green jumpsuit, I had little to offer. But after three hours in the October sunshine with Travis, marveling at the cold asphalt under my elbows and the unpretentious steel chassis above me, I had replaced the following:
headlights
rear brake shoes
over-tinted driver's side window
front engine mount
steering control arm
name - Bantha now answers to "Champion," thank you.

I had also expanded upon my signature look by deciding that henceforth I would lacquer my short, grubby nails red. Whether it conceals or highlights the grease underneath them remains to be seen, but it certainly rounds out my jumpsuit-chic aesthetic.

I returned Champion to the shop for re-inspection. "The engine mount isn't fixed at all," observed their mechanic.
"I replaced it completely."
"Put the car in park and turn the steering wheel. You can see all sorts of wobble..."
"The motion you're describing would have to come from the rear engine mount. The list you gave me says front engine mount."
"Well, it depends on which way you're facing..."

I wobbled my engine mount right outta there. They had the good sense not to charge me for reinspection. For the record, it does not depend on which way you're facing, but on whether it is situated toward the rear of the vehicle.

I'll let you know, but it might take more than scarlet fingernails and a jumpsuit that matches my eyes to get myself taken seriously in the automotive world.