Angus

It was time to buy a car.

I like the trek on Metro North as the train winds through the Bronx upwards toward my work destination in Connecticut. It's pretty now with spring's promise. And I do appreciate the irony at the end of the day when I leave the pristine premises of Connecticut and disembark in East Harlem, boarding a lazy crosstown bus that weaves through a cacophony of chicken shops, beauty salons, laundry mats and 99 cent stores. However, the commute from point A to B is about two hours each way and while the scenery is pleasant, that makes for an awfully long day.

Thanks to Fang's particular expertise in sussing out the best interest rates from a lender and expediting the sorts of buyer details I find tedious, a vehicle was indeed purchased yesterday. I like Hondas. They're reliable. I know how they work. I know how to adjust the freaking mirrors in the darn things. And it was strangely critical to trade up from the sedans I've always driven. While not especially environmentally conscious nor sensible as concerns gas mileage (somewhere Al Gore is hocking a lugie at me), I wanted a vehicle that would say, "It's OK to drive to the antique fairs in New Hope because you have room in the trunk for that wing back chair you love" or "Don't you want to go to Stu Leonard's in Yonkers and bring home a goat?" Well, the short answer is yes. Yes, I do.

When we went to the Honda dealership, they advised us they would be special ordering the Honda Pilot that had been carefully built online. In the meantime, would I like to take a test drive in a Pilot? Would I? Why, yes I would. I have been in enough cabs in Manhattan to know what sort of driving is acceptable. Aggressive is the watchword here. Give me the key--mama needs to drive. The road is calling.

I have to say the Pilot handled like a sedan. I barreled down West End Avenue with ease, even scaring a pedestrian who was walking against the light. I honked, only to alert him that my speed would not decrease even with him being there in the middle of the street and he responded accordingly. We then took the Pilot briefly onto the West Side Highway and the car handled lane changes and driver haranguing like a pro. How could one not love the Pilot?

For me, the clincher was the return to the dealership after the test drive. When I put the car in reverse, the salesperson suggested I check out the GPS system...on the monitor was a camera image from the back of the fender, which clearly gave me a view of any oncoming traffic, small children, minuscule pampered animals or other elements that I might possibly crush in an effort to parallel park in an available parking space. Well, hello? SOLD! Where do I sign?

Thousands of dollars later and an errant signature pledging my soul, I now await the call confirming the arrival of my new Pilot in Manhattan. As is the custom, I have already bestowed a name on this vehicle. Even my financial advisor called today and asked, "What did you name this car?" Because this shiny new Pilot is a bold hunter green and sturdy like a Scottish highlander, I have christened him Angus McDoody. Yes. That will work. A week from now when my ass is comfortable seated in Angus' heated leather bucket seats and I'm plowing down highway 1-95, I will call out, "Angus, please adjust the air fan speed to 3. Please call the New York office. Please play George Benson track 7."

And like the reliable fellow he is, he will.