The Car You Drive
“He drives a pimped-up Plymouth.”
The car you drive is a declaration of intent about yourself and the world. It is an admission of guilt that you work, hustle or in-between, where you live and future destination.
No. It’s not a statement of fact. Therefore, it’s always interesting when friends back-bite another friend and mention his car, as one of his foibles. Sometimes, it’s an opinion based on changed financial circumstances. His business tanked. He lost his wife, home and the Lexus.
Age can also be a factor. I don’t know how many novels I’ve read, where Mr. Simple Savoury shocked his married kids when he bleached his hair blond and bought a red two-seater convertible. He’s 58. Apparently, it is a sign of mid-life crisis.
It’s not a statement of fact, just assumptions based on a motor vehicle. I always smile when I see a Mini Cooper parked in the snow. It’s a car I associate with where I grew up, no snow in sight. It was common for rich fathers to buy darling daughters this car. Assumptions about cars can kill a man, when the police think such a man should not be driving such a car. The opinion matters when women reject men that drive other cars in favour of men, who drive cars that make the police envious.
It doesn’t matter what car you drive, as long as it doesn’t cough then die in the middle of the autobahn in Germany. Unfortunately it matters, because we don’t ‘know’ people who don't have a car. We live and work with them, but we cannot describe them because of that critical question: What car does he drive?
Nonqaba waka Msimang
Executive Blogger
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