I Am the Only Person on the Fury Road Who Still Drives a Sensible Car

When the world died, all that was left was chaos. All that awaited us was death. Living in the ashes of our civilization, I’ve learned two things: I can rely only on myself, and I am the only person in this whole wasteland who still drives a sensible car.

I know a 2006 Toyota Camry may not be very flashy or deadly, but it’s dependable, sturdy, and, affordable. And I’ve realized that’s what I need to survive this endless nightmare humanity has created for itself.

Let’s just start with the obvious: there’s air conditioning. Why doesn’t anyone else have that? I have no idea how you drive around an arid dead wasteland without the AC blasting.

Now, look at the safety features. For one thing, my Toyota has seat belts. On all the seats. That used to be standard. I just don’t understand how we reached the point where the number of skulls on your car means more than the number of awards your car got from J.D. Power & Associates.

It also has airbags, which are, frankly, way more effective than hoping that one of the many dead bodies littering the ground cushions your fall. There are a lot of them strewn around, but it’s just not a guarantee.

And taking those precautions is more important than ever. Everyone drives too fast. Slow down! Where is everyone going? There is literally nowhere to go; we live in a post-apocalyptic hellscape brought on by humanity’s hubris and drive for self-destruction.

I know civilization no longer exists, but driving etiquette still does. I don’t care how many wheels or turrets your war rig has; if you’re trying to turn left and I’m going straight, I have the right of way.

Speaking of turning, I seem to be the only one who bothers to signal anymore. I’ve seen cars with two hundred spikes and no rear taillight. Just take two of the spikes off!

And when you need to pass, you don’t need to yell, “WITNESS ME!” A simple honk of your horn is just fine.

Obviously, my Toyota isn’t perfect. I’m not sure what the seat material is made out of. Maybe it’s some kind of nylon or polyester. It’s definitely not leather or human skin, which, I admit, would feel a bit more premium.

And I’ll say it: I wish I had fifty-foot-high speakers on the outside and a guitarist in red pajamas named the “Doof Warrior” who can shoot flames while shredding. But the stereo system is pretty decent, and I did find a CD of Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits volumes I and II that the previous owner of the car left behind. Their loss, my gain.

But don’t let yourself think for a second that this baby doesn’t have power under the hood. It can go from zero to sixty in 3.5 seconds, though I try not to do that, as it puts a lot of stress on the engine.

Now, I’m going to say the two words that are absolute music to my ears: fuel economy. I get twenty-five to thirty miles per gallon. That’s pretty good in a post-apocalyptic hellscape where the only currency is oil and blood.

As the Piano Man himself would say: “Hot funk, cool punk, even if it’s old junk, it’s still rock and roll to me.”

God, he’s good.

And I customize my car just like the rest of the wasteland. Maybe I don’t have a mounted harpoon or flamethrower, but I did put up a sticker of a little dog saying WHERE CAN I FIND A BARKING SPOT?, because, hey, some things can just be fun.

I also put a BABY ON BOARD bumper sticker on the back of my car. I obviously don’t have a baby—the radiation has made me infertile and turned my testicles into rice pudding—but I do find that people drive slower when I have it on.

I love my Toyota.

Do I love it as much as the people who pray for a fiery death in their cars? No, of course not. I’m not part of Immortan Joe’s army or a Tesla owner. But the fury road is long and winding, and I’ll be driving it while going at or under fifty-five.