She was a bit of all right, was Doreen. A bit rusty on the undercarriage perhaps, with the obvious signs of previous use (most likely, ram-raiding or joy-riding), but still a decent little car. If things had turned out differently, I would probably say she was a good investment.
"Name?" The official behind the large reception desk is a man, clean-shaven, appearing no older than twenty-five. There was not the slightest hint of boredom in his voice, though he must have done the same job for God-knows-how- long.
"Timothy Long." I reply.
Two features about him make me realise that I am not in Sutton any more - the white-than-white suit (Daz must be making a killing here), and the golden hair. "Age?"
"Eighteen."
"And why are you here?"
"Good question."
It was my eighteenth birthday party. My mate Paul and I were discussing, over my first (legal) pint of beer, what sort of car I should buy. Having passed my driving test a few weeks earlier, and being old enough to vote, Paul suggested I should show off my recently acquired social status.
"My main aim is to have a set of wheels that actually does what it's supposed to," I told Paul.
"What's that, then?"
"Getting me from A to B."
"What's the point of having a car if you don't milk it for all its worth? You know nine out of ten girls prefer car owners to pedestrians. And you know what they say about people with big cars."
"I'd rather be fancied me for the size of my character than the size of my car."
Having chosen my criteria (i.e. it works) and discarding Paul's criteria (i.e. babe-magnet), we scanned the second-hand car ads and staked out the dodgy dealers. Off course, with the combined pressures of coursework, clubbing and having no cash, car-hunting changed from being a craze to a chore. That was when Doreen came into my life.
"You can't get that, Tim," Paul said. "Even my gran would never be seen dead in that." The fact that his gran had died from a heart attack, causing a car accident, two years ago slightly invalidated his argument.
"Come on, it's only a car, Paul" I replied, though I do not know why I am surprised that Paul is taking this image malarkey seriously.
"No, it's not a car, it's suppose to be an extension of your-".
"Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, but it's all I can afford at the moment. And for a first car, it's not too bad-looking."
"Look, I hear that that Safeway's are always looking for shop assistants to work at the weekend. Why don't you apply for a job there?", Paul suggested. "Then you can save up for a car that's cool not crap like that one."
"I'll probably have forgotten to drive by then. Anyway, 2CVs are suppose to be quite kitsch. And I think the way that the name is sprayed on the side in a sort of graffiti style is quite cool. Kind of old-meets-new."
"But the name's Doreen. You can't get much more uncool than that." That was Paul's last attempt to persuade me not to make the biggest fashion mistake in history.
I did not listen and bought the 2CV for only £450 - thanks Mum - but, as I have said, she was only a car to travel from A to B without relying on London Transport, Connex South Central, or Dad.
Call it magic or just female charm, but soon I started referring to the car as 'My Doreen'.
"Mr Long, I know you have just suffered a traumatic experience but there will be plenty of chances to talk about it with a fully trained counsellor later on in the programme. Could you just stick to the facts?". Somehow, the official could say this without sounding impatient.
While I am talking, I place my hands on the desk. It is very smooth. Not smooth like a baby's bottom. Smooth as in not a single blemish or rough edge. In other words, perfection. Wherever I was, they certainly employed an excellent carpenter.
"Yeah, sure, whatever you say."
Just as Helen Daniels had to be kidnapped, nearly remarried, run over, and have a stroke before finally kicking the bucket, Doreen gave me a few scares too. I am sure that if she was ever used as a getaway car, the police would have been able to track her down just by the level of her emissions. They must have been outside EC regulations. And she could never start up without sounding as if she was going to explode. The IRA probably could have held the Government to ransom if they had gained control of her, with the minimum risk to human life.
A few weeks ago, there was a knock on the door at home. Mum answered. It was the police.
"Excuse me, madam," said one of the policemen. "We have a warrant here to search this property for explosive devices." He showed us a piece of paper, obviously the warrant. It looked official, as did their badges, so we had no choice but to let them in. Mum was confused. I was too initially, but then it dawned on me that the problem was as far from explosives as one could possibly get.
I am sure that my sniggering only made the detectives more suspicious and eager to find something. Off course, all they found was Doreen. The residents in our street set up their own lottery, with their own sweepstakes. Bets were at odds of 100-1 on an explosion indicating the presence of a bomb.
Still, the car was mine and I felt privileged as none my friends had cars - a fashion accessory and status symbol on par with Versace (or Oxfam), for the typical eighteen-year old. Unfortunately, it meant that 'going out' meant having to drive my mates, who were scared shitless, I mean witless, to sit in her (in case, she blew).
"That car'll be the death of you." My mate, Kate voiced her concern after her first time.
"Sir, if you can just tell me the facts of the incident in question, that would be great. I am quite busy, as you can see from the queue." There should have been even the slightest hint of annoyance in his voice. Either this guy was extremely good at masking his emotions, very tolerant, or just an experienced customer services assistant. I turn my head to see the queue in question - never-ending would be an understatement. The members of the queue appear to belong to the whole strata of human life - doctors to dustmen, priests to prostitutes, the wealthy, the weak, and everyone in between.
I remember when I was in the queue, it seemed to go on forever in the corridor with the whitewashed walls.
"Okay, Okay, keep your extra-large polyester Y-fronts on."
I had pulled up at the traffic lights on the corner of Stafford Road (it was a red light), and in the next lane was a shiny, silvery-grey, sleek, aerodynamic BMW. Each of the four blokes occupying was acting as if all the girls fancied them. You know the type, the rich graduates that one sees in those good old American college-based movies. They took one glance at Doreen and burst into laughter.
"Where did you get that pile of junk?" jeered one of them. I ignored them, hoping that they would go away.
"Grandma-snatcher!" I think that was a reference to the fact that the popularity of the name Doreen was equal to that of Hitler.
I should have been upset, mocking my girl like a narrow-minded army of vehicle fascists. Who did they think they were anyway? The fashioon polics? Still, I knew (cross my fingers) that Doreen could outrun Barry the BMW any day. Normally, I would not give a toss but those idiots looked so smug.
The lights turned yellow.
I released the clutch to biting point, pressing the accelerator at the same time.
The lights turned green.
I released the clutch completely and slammed down the accelerator the rest of the way.
Sixty metres down the road, I checked my rear view mirror to see that the BMW was only just beginning to pull away from the traffic lights. That was funny. That was my mistake. Newton's third law states that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, and Doreen travelling at 45 miles per hour in a matter of seconds was one hell of an action.
One could say it was the experience of a lifetime, indeed, the experience to end all experiences.
"Thank you for your time," the official behind the desk asks says. I expect to see "About bloody time" written all over his face. I cannot. "Just take this form, fill in the remaining empty spaces and wait over there where it says 'New Arrivals'."
"Thank you," I reply as he gives me the piece of paper he had been writing on.
The 'New Arrivals' is similar in appearance to the seating areas in airport lounges, the ones where travellers wait for at least six hours for a flight that they should have boarded five hours earlier. Just row after row of seating, each seat occupied with a member of the human race. This was the true definition of multicultural society.
I think I am in Heaven when I see a semi-naked gorgeous girl opposite me. This could be fun. Remembering the form, I start to fill in when I notice what the official has already written at the top of the page: "Name: Timothy Long, Age: 18, Cause of death: Unstable molecules in a 2CV."
Pravin Jeyaraj is 21 years old and about to start the final year at university. He enjoys reading and writing, and has numerous poems and parodies in his folder at home, though most of the poems are still in first draft stage.
Pravin is working his way through a correspondence writing course, and has had some success in publication in 'Tamil Times', 'Freelance Market News', 'Melody Maker' and 'Hip hop Connection'. He has started writing some fiction aswell. His ultimate ambition is be an bestselling novelist and/or cool music journalist, and has already interviewed unsigned bands Groom Lake, Velma and To War with Love for his college magazine.
E-mail:Pravjey@aol.com
URL: http://www.mcs.surrey.ac.uk/Personal/Student/ma51pj
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