Personal Narrative Essay: Substance Abuse

I hammered. I beat it raw, until the piece was unrecognizable. I manipulated it in a way to suit my own twisted desires. And like that, I was finished. Sweat dripped off my brow, as I cleaned and wiped the surface with rubbing alcohol and surface cleaner, making it shine to show my blood covered face and sweat drenched shirt. This summer, I spent my weeks, day in and day out, working on an old pickup. The pickup was a 1991, with over four hundred thousand miles, and enough stories to bring a child from adolescence to the age of retirement. The vehicle had been used in illegal drag races, drunken ride homes from the bar, and chasing women of promiscuity and easy virtue. The vehicle had been used for smuggling over the border and fancying authentic
Latin American eateries. This vehicle had been stolen, abused, fixed, abused, and neglected its entire life. And this summer, I prepared it for its new life of service as a weekend hotrod. This process wouldn’t be easy, as nothing in life ever is. I sat back, and stared at the old, broken, hunk of steel and wondered how to even get started. I had no idea where to begin, as it was just so broken. It continuously mocked me, just by sitting there. I had had enough. Eventually, after realizing that it didn’t much matter to begin, I chose the only viable option; Start randomly disassembling until I found something that needed to be done. And so, that’s what I did. I randomly did things too it. Until I found something that would continuously tie up my time and make me think about pushing it over a cliff…. repeatedly. This process was long, and arduous, however, many people cannot say they have done half of what I have. And this, made me proud. As, the joys of summer, where one population drinks and parties, and the others break their backs working for nothing. Isn’t youth wonderful?

As I became more involved, removing parts and random trim pieces, I quickly realized that I wasn’t alone; I had company.
I slowly ran my hands along the metal, occasionally tapping and listing to the sound that followed. I noticed an anomaly. As my hand ran, there was a microscopic bump, invisible to the naked eye. I swore. This bump was only the first of many, however, this denoted a bigger problem; Microscopic bumps usually meant one thing; Bondoc. Bondo, is a filling putty, used to repair Collison damage. While very workable when wet, it becomes unstable and will flake with age and time. I swore again. The progress was just beginning, and as soon as it began, it had come to a screeching halt. I swore for the third time, uttering a plethora of foul mouthed words that would embarrass a sailor. Old habits are hard to break, and the older they are, the stronger they get. As I debated what to do with the Bondo, I found myself in a sudden fit of violent rage. It angered me, as life never worked out in my favor. Next thing I was aware of was the hammer. 18-pound sledge, 6-foot handle. Had a swing weight of 72 pounds. I swung. I Swung again. As I mangled what was left of the damaged body, I felt a sickeningly sweet wave of satisfaction over me. I saw how I made it all worse and didn’t even care. It was all a dream, a dream in
reality. It is always amazing how an action can be done yet cannot be undone. It is always a wonder to me, how life can behave in this manor, but not allow us, as the top of the food chain, to be superior over the concept of time. Time is merely an enigma, created by man. I had crushed the Bondo. I had destroyed the entire molecular make up of that damned body filler and set myself back three weeks on the deadline. But in the end it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. It was all for nothing, because in the end, we all are buried six feet in the ground. Go figure.

As I calmed from my borderline sociopathic rage, I evaluated my situation. The bed was shot; The glass was broken; I was broken. I smiled. This was all part of the plan. Destroy the hardest part, and fix it. Gave me a sense of purpose I suppose. As I hammered it back into submission, I watched how the metal was forced, bent, and contorted to my desire. As I layered the replacement putty, I laughed, and thought “Hey, that’s my life”. The putty applied beautifully and sanded smooth. Alas, the bodywork continued.
Putty, sand, smooth, repeat. After four days of this, I began to grow weary from repeating the process over and over again. I laughed. I made jokes to myself to remain calm. It always amazed me; When they show television shows doing it, the elapsed time frame for body work is five weeks. I spent four weeks on purely Bondo work. This is arguably the most time consuming portion of any kind of restoration, as the Bondo is only workable within the parameters that it remains wet, and glue like. As it dries, it becomes hard, and doesn’t allow further refinement without the use of heavy sanding disks. This progress not only drained my bank account, but also drained my will to live. It was a bitter, slow
process. The body work had been completed. The worst part of this entire flop of a project had been vanquished, or so I thought. After Bondo was primer. Primer is a filling spray that is sued to hide small imperfections, and to further adhere the paint. Clean, primer, sand, repeat. Make it right Chase, you cannot mess this up. Finally, it was time for Paint. Artic white, four coats, one sweet shine. I mixed the paint and sprayed it onto the vehicle. No luck. Clotted and left a finish comparing to a child’s finger painting. Ok, sand off and respray. No luck. This time the texture of an orange appeared on the entire vehicle. Shoot the third time, and it finishes beautifully. I guess it’s true; Third times the charm.