A gold 1982 Nissan 280ZX: I loved this car from the moment I set eyes on her in the local classifieds. She had lived a full life when I took possession, and though I tried to revive her, the damage was already done. Instead of the wild, romantic partner I had imagined I would be, I became her hospice care worker, throwing good money after bad to merely keep her alive. The poet Emily Dickinson wasn’t alive when Nissan Motor incorporated, but she anticipated my romanticism, my stupidity: “The heart wants what it wants, or else it does not care.”
The previous owner did not trick me, or withhold any information. I had made my decision to buy long before we ever had contact, in my bedroom looking at that tiny ad in the classifieds. The text was succinct, telling me everything I needed (wanted) to know: five-speed, T-top, in-line six with leather seats, and power everything. High mileage, but the paint was an 8 out of 10 and it was a manual. That’s everything a 17-year-old boy with a fresh license and a decade of drooling over Road & Track magazines needs to read.
