It Hertz

(sigh)…I don’t know where to start. So much rage, and then depression, and then rage…The airbag warning light in my car started to blink this week, so I left my beloved Miata

[picture here taken from a play date]

with the automotive doctors at Sierra Mazda. And now, my story begins…

Mazda says they will need a few days and will hook me up with a rental from Hertz. Naturally, I ask for a Shelby GT-H, but instead the Hertz dude offers me the choice of a Sonata or an HHR. I decide to go with the automotive incarnation of Elmer Fudd:

Despite the Fudd-mobile’s cartoony “kick my ass, it’s easy” demeanor, I think it might be a fun car to have for a few days. But then I look inside and find the interior to be...well...disgusting. The first thing I notice is this ghastly stain on the passenger seat:

Please tell me that’s spilt milk. I don’t carry a black light around with me, so I decide to put my bag on the floor. And then I notice more nastiness…

And what’s with the sawdust in the glove compartment?:

And it smells like the closet of a smoker with bad personal hygiene. (Hertz, is it too much to ask that you give me a car that doesn't compel me to wash my hands after every time I drive it? A complaint to the manager will be filed upon returning this car, and I will keep you all posted as to Hertz’s response. After all, we are for the people here at Chyo and Joe’s, especially if one of those people’s name is Joe.)

As I hesitantly plant my freshly laundered khakis onto the driver’s seat, I notice the shockingly poor fit and finish of the dash and steering wheel:

The chrome around the speedo and tach looks like it was sourced from Mattel:

The interior materials look more Tonka than Toyota. The rubbery steering wheel feels hollow, like it would weigh about 10 ounces on its own, and would feel equally at home in a child’s “Power Wheels” toy. I can't help thinking that my Logitech Steering Wheel for the PlayStation 2 is leagues ahead in terms of quality:
I consider asking for another car right then, but I am already late for work, and the guy helping me seems new as he’s double checked every aspect of the protocol thus far with his increasingly impatient manager in the arduous process of setting me up with this piece of sh*t. So I bite my tongue, start it up, and put it in reverse…and the lack of rearward visibility is immediately apparent. Looking through the rear window feels like looking through a glorified peephole, and although visibility is fine looking forward, there is an unmistakably odd “hiding in a cave” feeling to being inside. (I would understand if this was a Mini, but the HHR could swallow a Mini whole and still have enough room to pound a couple of Vespas for dessert.) Soon, the cabin stench begins to overwhelm my anger management skills, and I hunt for the window controls. About 5 seconds later, I find them buried at the bottom of the center console, forcing me to bend down to reach them while craning my neck to keep my eyes on the road.


I then try to find a place for my water bottle, and of course the large cup holder which is too big to hold a soda can or a fountain drink is too small to fit my Nalgene knock off. It is, so fittingly (pun intended), perfectly useless. Trying to ignore the rolling and crashing of my water bottle on the passenger floor, I decide to attempt option two: a soda. However, I can’t reach it because the arm rest is in the way:


Ok, fine. No arm rest. I can do without an arm rest. But still, the cup holder being right next to my hip adds tennis-elbow-inducing anti-ergonomics to every sip of my Canada Dry. (Later on, I discovered that I also have to move the passenger seat arm rest to access the handbrake. Nice. Props to the designers at GM—It takes talent to be this careless and still get paid.) With not a little frustration, I continue on toward work.

As I drive, I find that there’s roughly an inch of play in the steering wheel. I can literally turn the wheel almost 10 degrees off axis with no affect while moving at freeway speeds. The brake pedal has the feel of one of those plastic step-on air pumps used to fill up yoga balls and is about as effective at doing its job. The engine/transmission seems to have a mind of its own. I start thinking about the contrast between what I gave up and what I received, and realize that the trade was nothing short of tragic. My Miata feels like its always trying to anticipate my intentions in order to transform its behavior into an apparent extension of my will. Now, I am the one trying to guess what the car is going to do despite my inputs. My Miata’s steering wheel is like a scalpel that allows me to carve corners with surgical precision; the HHR’s wheel is like a syringe that injects my hands with Novocain. But then I see it: the looping connector on the 134 from Pasadena going west. My workday ritual is to take the curved passing lane on the right and pass all the lesser drivers on the left. I see my opening and floor the gas pedal. Nothing. Still nothing. With my right foot still on the floor, I watch helplessly as the passing gap closes. And then, suddenly, the car lurches forward with a violent downshift resulting in flurry of wildish revs sounding off with all the composure of a post-water-boarding confession. Finally, the car accelerates, but too late to help me pass, yet with just enough vigor that I must brake to keep from tailgating the car in front of me. The gross discrepancy between the two vehicles is made even clearer. When passing, my Miata reacts to my input like an eager athletic puppy aiming to please; the HHR reacts like a lazy beer-bellied misogynist to his wife’s request to help with the dishes. The HHR discourages all attempts at engaged driving and consequently beats down the will of its driver until all that remains is a soulless being trying to survive a daily sentence in a boredom chamber. And I realize that in this car, what I want really doesn’t matter. A wave of depression ripples deep in my chest, and I imagine burying myself under 6 feet of dirt. After paying my respects, I get in line behind everybody else in traffic. I start to feel restless, squirmy. I am utterly pining for distraction. I think, "Who can I call right now to kill time? Who can I call right now to kill me? Hmmm…there’s an accident on the other side of the barrier…better slow down to get a look." I turn on the radio and start channel surfing like a teenage boy looking for scrambled porn as I thoughtlessly hold the wheel with my left index finger. And then, in a moment of horrific clarity, the reality of my own degradation hits me square in the unders like a two-fisted Jean-Claude Van Damme. My eyes open and I can see that I am becoming the very driver I hate. Even more, I realize that, for years now, I have unfairly berated people for their inattentive driving habits. Instead, what I should have been doing was shaming them for their inexcusably poor decision-making as consumers. My mind races with questions, accusations, and random syntheses of socio-political/economic thought: “Who in their right mind decides to buy this car? If you own an HHR, please say your piece because my curiosity is boiling over, and I’m guessing you have nothing better to do. Did you even look at the competition? Forget about the Japanese and the Germans, even the new kids on the block from Korea are putting out cars that grossly outclass this thing. You, the middle class American consumer, are allowing a once esteemed American Automaker to get away with murdering itself. And you, GM, buy yourself the cheapest Japanese and German cars you can find (I suggest a Volkswagon Rabbit and a Honda Fit) and take a look at what you’re up against. Study, study, study. Notice the build quality, the higher end materials used, the logical layout of the dash, the smoothness of the engine, even the assured click of the turn signal stalk. Details matter. I know, I know, the Union issue. Figure it out already. Our popular religion may be based in the book of Genesis, but the way we live is rooted in The Origin of Species, and evolution doesn't sympathize with anyone. Your daddy’s trust fund can only take you so far. At some point, even the foulest droppings of nepotistic greatness have to grow up and earn their keep. I long for the day I can proudly buy an everyday American car and not feel like it’s a charitable act of ignorant patriotism. The Corvette’s a great car (the interior is about as cutting edge as the Zip drive, but the car’s performance and consequent value make it great nonetheless). The Caddie CTS seems like a legit effort. But what about a decent car for us common folks? After all, we are your largest group of consumers, and most of us aren’t as stupid as you might hope.”

…and with those thoughts, I finally arrive at work. I put the transmission into Park and all 4 doors automatically unlock. I shake my head, bewildered at how the bad just keeps on coming at you in this car. More accusations ensue: “Did no one at GM think that maybe this could be a potential safety issue? My 8 year old Volkswagon Golf is set up such that the doors stay locked but as the inside handles are pulled, the corresponding door automatically unlocks itself. We’re not talking Mercedes or Lexus here. We’re talking about a $15k economy car from 8 years ago.” After a bit more head shaking, I exit the car and reach to close the door, hoping to put an end to a most regrettable morning. But as my finger touches the door, I get a static shock so severe that I nearly drop my computer bag as my arm shoots behind my head. I fight a seemingly ageless internal battle to refrain from keying the car or driving it inland and asking my friend from the last post to run over it. Now calm, I carefully close the door. Out of habit, I lock the car, but catch myself thinking, “Why? Who would steal this golden turd when there’s a perfectly good 21-speed sitting there on the rack?”

The moral of this story for me, for you, and for GM: I should have chosen the Hyundai.