I am the first person ever to rent a car. 

Now, I know what you’re saying.  

And you’re right. My husband did, in fact, rent a car recently. 

It was a bright blue Nissan Kick.  

Each time my husband started the car, its Bluetooth tried connecting to Ihor’s phone. 

We don’t know Ihor. But we do know Ihor has some bad habits. 

A few days into the rental, my husband found a full pack of Camel cigarettes tucked into a pocket behind the front seat. 

I don’t know what he was looking for in that front seat pocket. Maybe more random mortgage papers. 

A day later, my son reached into the water bottle slot in the passenger door. 

“What’s this?” he asked my husband. 

He was holding a baggie of pot. 

And a joint.  

Such a little rascal, that Ihor.  

Now, I have a long-standing personal policy to never smoke anything I find in the door of a rented, bright blue Nissan Kick. 

Just so we’re clear. 

Having spent a week with Ihor’s rental car, why do I think I’m the first person to rent a car? 

Well, let’s go back a few years. 

You may remember Willie gave me her car when I took away her car keys a few years ago. 

Willie will tell you she paid off that car, giving it to me for free. 

Free. 

“But you pay to transfer the tags,” Willie said. “I’ve paid for enough.” 

Well, you certainly haven’t paid your taxes but we’ll just let that go. 

Upon acquiring the car, you may recall we discovered the inspection was expired, the tires were bald, and the car needed $6,000 in body repairs. 

And the gas tank was empty. 

Since owning it, my husband has been rear-ended twice on a commute he’s made for 20 years without getting rear-ended even once. 

Do I think Willie put a hex on the car? Willie? Who can’t even pay her taxes? 

Yes. I exactly think Willie put a hex on the car. I think that’s what she was doing instead of paying taxes. 

On Tuesday of last week, my son and I settled into the car for our daily, week-long, ninety-minute drive to his camp. 

Don’t ask.  

I turned on the car with that stupid button instead of a key like a normal person because I’m a Gen X-er and I just want a key to turn on my car and a stick shift that’s not competing with a signed copy of The Catcher in the Rye for rarity. 

Apparently, that’s too much to ask for. 

It’s probably why Ihor partakes. We need to forget our troubles, right, Ihor? 

Anyway, I turned on the car. Messages flashed across the dashboard data center. 

“Warning! ABS problem. Braking may be reduced.”  

“Warning! Lane departure system offline!” 

“Warning! Hill start assist problem!” 

I was trying to figure out what a “hill start assist system” was as more warnings flashed across the dashboard. 

If something in the car depended upon its electrical system, it appeared it was malfunctioning. 

My other personal policy is to never drive a car whose “braking may be reduced.” 

So I took the car for service and picked up a rental car. 

Ten minutes into our camp commute, the car was still warm. Tepid air blew from the vents, despite the air conditioning set low. 

Twenty minutes into our commute, it was clear the air conditioner didn’t work. 

The dashboard temperature read 88 degrees. The car’s internal temperature was 96 degrees. 

I called the rental place. I asked if maybe the car had some trick to the air conditioning. Something I was missing. 

It didn’t, but the clerk offered me a different car. 

I explained I was thirty minutes into a lengthy commute and was likely returning the car the next day. He suggested I try one of the company’s sites near my son’s camp. 

So I did just that.  

“Oh,” the clerk at the New Jersey agency said. “We don’t have any cars to rent.” 

Um, what? 

You’re a car rental place and you don’t have any rental cars? 

He suggested I try their agency in the next town. They might have a car for me. 

I called them. 

Not so much. 

We drove home in temperatures roughly that of the Bennigan’s fajita skillet that burned my finger while I was waiting tables in 1994. 

The following day, I learned my car wouldn’t be ready until after the camp commute. 

So I called the original rental site, who told me the day before to come in for a new rental car. 

“Oh, we don’t have anything,” they told me when I called. 

Neither did any of their Lower Bucks County locations. 

Or their Abington-area locations. 

Two locations disconnected the call before anyone could even get on the phone. 

“Your best bet,” customer service told me, “is to go to the airport.” 

The airport.  

An hour away. 

“Man,” I said. “I sure do miss Ihor.” 

I called another rental company, who told me they had “like five or six cars” available to rent. 

At a car rental agency? So innovative! 

I returned the lemon and walked across the street to the other agency. 

I picked up my keys. 

I turned on the ignition — with an actual key. 

I basked in the cold air flowing from the vents. 

I leaned back. Closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. 

The car had a faint scent of cigarette smoke. 

Ah! There’s my Ihor!