Flying Hans Solo

At one point, given that an obnoxious automobile finance company with a 20% interest rate or higher had put me deeply in debt, I had to give up a sporty little red compact that I called the Red Rocket. In order to survive, for only $500, I bought a 1999 Pontiac 6000 (its name derives from the fact that it gets 6000 inches to the gallon). The paint had long since vanished from its surface, leaving it a dull metallic color. I called the hunk of junk the Millenium Falcon.

Given its color, I also called it the Bucket of Bolts. In fact, I considered getting one of those skin coverings to make it look like the Millenium Falcon. By skin covering, I mean those polymer ones, not some sicko Buffalo Bill covering. (It puts the polymer coating on the Millenium Falcon and does what it is told.) Anyway, an artistic colleague had created an entire mural on hers. What would be wrong with a science fiction geek putting a covering on the car to make it look even more like it was out of the junkyard? (Professor Frink voice: "From what I remember, George Lucas and his band of filmmakers exhumed junk and made ships that were the equivalent of found art sculptures. -With the gluing and the zooming and the glaven!") What if I could visit my parents back home and dig out a small satellite dish (my Dad once sold dishes door to door but in a different sense) and affix it to the top of the car? (I swear that I was only a quasi-geek. I stood in line for the "Star Wars" prequels but did not inhale the metaclorians and did not wear a fiberglass helmet.) I am sure that the Millenium Falcoln would have made me a Chic (sheek) Geek.

Also, the parallels between Hans Solo and me were striking. I had a monolithic corporation wanting my car back. In fact, I am sure that a morbidly obese customer service supervisor with said corporation must have had plenty of debtors chained to his person. He would pull them to him in a fit of sadistic rage, foaming at the mouth with a tongue lolling about, whenever he wanted an extra payment. His labored breathing over the phone sounded like he could barely waddle over to answer it. You would never guess that I was a smart alec when it came to dealing with these folks just like Hans Solo was. I don't think that carbonite would have suited me well, though. It doesn't match my eyes.

Therefore, I gave up that sporty car and flew Hans Solo for a while. The last I thought of the Millenium Falcon was when I was in Myrtle Beach for a conference and visited the Retro-Active store. On their wall, they had a bumper sticker which read, complete with a photo of the spaceship, "My other car is the Millenium Falcon." I shall always remember that car and the time I was Hans Solo. Every once in a while, as I am driving my newer Ford across one of the bridges in Charleston, I say his name like a geeky mantra. Hans Solo. Hans Solo. Hans Solo.