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JCI has 7 months left (expires in December 2024)

Road tax paid for 2024

Make: Nissan

Model: Murano

Year: 2007

Miles: 100,000 km

Color: Black

Transmission: Automatic

Upholstery: Pleather


When I bought this Murano, it smelled like somebody had chain-smoked in it for ten years, then died in the car on a hot August day with the windows up. There’s a weird stain on the left front speaker, and I don’t know why. The paint on the back roof is pealing, and the brakes squeak after it rains.


There’s a small rip on the driver’s seat from dragging my soul out of the car every day to work lights-to-lights for micromanaging egomaniacs who hate their families. At least once, I took the dog for a walk at Kenso and accidentally left a bag of poop in the back trunk overnight. About every six months, there is some kind of issue. Most recently, it was the battery and something about the air filter.


A week after I bought it, it was running so badly that I took it back to Don’s old place, and we drove around talking about the old days while the car skipped along the expressway like we were in a bad Pink Floyd video. It has heated seats, which was nice in the winter when it was pitch black outside, and I was headed back to work at the Dungeon; a place where I was forced to chase my tail on the hamster wheel of success while I attempted to decipher the boss’s hieroglyphic notes on how to make a sharper right angle.


This car was a refuge of solitude where I would sit in peace in the glaring sun and blast the ice-cold AC while I drank a gallon of burnt coffee mixed with workout powder. It gave me the motivation to survive in a place where no Full-Bird was left behind; a building where the only people smiling are the ones who just got there or the ones who are leaving soon. I endured the endless parade of out-of-touch, non-03 sycophants knifing each other in the back and running their people into the ground at the slightest hint of possible command and a fresh divorce. They spewed their robotic word salad nonsense about peeling the onion back and doing a deep dive at the granular level to get some real fidelity. I tried (unsuccessfully) to wear my “earnest” face while I thought about my family and how little I saw them working at the Dungeon.


This car led me to a quiet place that overlooked Chatan, where I would smoke cigars and call old buddies. We would retell the same stories and laugh about how life was simpler when we were ignorant and all we had to do was carry endless weight. This car kept me sane while I was stuck in Chatan traffic listening to weird podcasts and trying to imagine the names of the uptight looking zero wives behind me.


In the summer, the sun would chase me as I drove from Nago and blared The Ramones until my ears rang. Somehow, those golden sunsets just looked better from the rearview mirror of this car. I tried to change out the ancient stereo, but I got the big “X” hand symbol from the Autobacs dude. “Can not do,” he said. He was so serious. So it goes.


I paid around five grand for this car four years ago at Don’s old place. Maybe $800 is too much. Maybe it’s not enough. It doesn’t matter at this point; this will be my fourth time leaving the island, and I just want to leave in peace. It’s always a gamble buying a Lemon Lot, Bookoo special. I know all about that, and I have offered this car as my gift to the Gods of the island and my future Karma.


Maybe this car will be perfect for you. This island is weird like that. Sometimes, you just get lucky. Maybe you will pay the JCI in seven months and get two great years out of this car. Maybe those orders to the MEU will be fantastic for you and the family. Maybe that person you met at Chi-Chi’s really is the one. Maybe the new boss won’t be just like the old boss. You won’t know until you roll the dice and ride the lighting. This magic car was my antidote to idiots, and I will drive it until the day before I leave. If I only get sob stories and lowball offers, I will junk it out of spite.

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