Last Drive

I dislike the classification of sentimentalist, it seems mawkish and tawdry, illuminated by a mercury vapor lamp into an orange-grey world.  Keep away from me, Hallmark; your platitudes and assurances bring an odor of yesterday's socks.  I also loathe certain words; whimsy, unless it means nosegay; "delish," unless nothing.  No redemptive echo there.  But to anthropomorphize inanimate, unconscious objects?  I'm in the front row.

Through a series of paperwork somersaults, I am in process of acquiring a different car from a private owner, and by gum, the things I'm learning about the layers of who shot John regarding loans, titles, insurance, and no we won'ts, particularly from the apartment complex who said they would not allow me a day to have an unlicense-plated car in the lot.  One. Day.  The old management would have said okey-dokey since the workers would come into my apartment and use my hot sauce on their fast food sandwiches.  Evidence?  Diminishing levels within the bottle, and on occasion, a crumpled sandwich wrapper that missed the garbage can.  That's another story, though.

This story concerns conversations I have had with my 2001 Chevy Cavalier that I would keep forever except that it is accelerating in falling apart, and leaves a red trail of rusted metal wherever I park.  The trunk lock no longer works and the lid is now tied down with yellow nylon and it bounces.  I tried all the suggested remedies, but nothing doing.  The right window is permanently shut, the mechanic put something in the door to keep it up so the car would pass inspection.  The spend money check engine light says hello.  The rear defroster signed off three years back.  Brake fluid disappears with each severe change in outdoor temperature. The body is rusting.  One good tire. The driver's side door was replaced and is black, but by golly, it has a crank window knob.  The left front strut is gone, the right rear strut is soon to follow; this past fall I was helped by one mechanic and had my head danced upon by another to the total tune of $3,000 in repairs.  I wish the dancer a wolverine up his leg someday.  That's another story.

But this red car was the nicest thing I had ever bought myself.  Again, the salesman told me no no no never in an accident till he opened the guts of the driver's side door one day to fix the window and lo, the inside was blue with red spray paint coming to the edges.  The dash has since developed cracks, showing the earthquake effect of a t-bone accident.  But it was a neat little car, a bit sporty, and had a sunroof.  The logistics of payment fit, and I Had A Car.  It got me out of any snowbank, held ground in the worst weather; it only didn't start twice in it's life, once being because I left the lights on.  Any empty college parking lot at night was the better for it, as then the door lock remote worked and the engine always turned over.  The engine is now tired and doesn't accelerate as quickly, but it still gets me to work over one of the worst, bombed-out roads in the city.

So, can an unliving thing care?  Are there agreements and understandings between car and driver?  I love to drive, and miss the long trips I would take mid-State to Corning and beyond.  They will come again via the car that's coming in, who's owner said he would store it until I got the Cavalier settled, thus avoiding the temporary plate business and the unhelpful apartment management.  By "unhelpful" I mean something else, but being a good person (mostly), those sorts of words should not be said except in a wind tunnel; I wish them wolverines as well.

There will be soon, a Last Drive of my old friend who got me out of many places, and took me all the way to Boston, Massachusetts once.  How will I find this new car in a lot?  It's black, which I don't mind, but the red stood out, especially red with one black door.  This thing is a clever box of a car, but it reminds me of a hearse for refrigerators.  A paddy wagon owned by Lurch.  A dairy truck which delivers Stygian milk from contented black widows.  It will not be my formerly zippy red Chevy; comfortable, reliable, friendly as a pony.  I usually pat the car after it gets me home and say 'thank you' because to me, the service seems real, a gift; I guess because a car moves and responds as you wish it to.  My couch is nice, but it isn't my friend (maybe).  I will cry after the last drive.  I know it.  Me.  The anti-sentimentalist.

The line of plastic frogs that live under the front passenger seat facing the door will be moved to the newer digs.  Don't ask, I don't know.  One dropped down there--I teach kids, I give away earth science prizes--and soon a row of toy frogs gradually appeared as they came into my life.  There is a large dead bug jammed between the upholstery and the rear window; he's been there for the twelve years I have had the car.  The wings were a glossy green and looked great so I left him there; he's faded to a dull tan, bereft of former glory, but we all can use some kindness at that stage.  

The trunk needs unloading, picture frames need to be brought in, a good vacuuming wouldn't hurt.  Years ago, I learned that everything is transient, nothing ever stays the same; letting go is a healthy exercise in self-preservation.  In truth, the Chevy is dangerous in spite of new brakes and fuel lines; this black box opportunity was pointed out by a friend's car-smart husband, and it makes sense.  Especially since, as when I got out of my car the other day, a thing was hanging on the lot fence; an earring?  Nope.  A key tag for the type of car I am buying.  Toyota Scion, right where I pulled in.  A sign, says I.  Good enough for me.

We all have one last times, even if we don't recognize them amid vows of return to favorite beaches, restaurants, and especially, friends.  If I knew it would have been the one last time, I would not have been so blithe in my so longs.  Every goodbye shouldn't be dramatic stage-chewing, but there are folks that you say goodbye to knowing it is the last time, and others that, well, life gets in the way, as it should.  Travelers, we are, accomplished beings following an internal compass along paths that occasionally cross, or that are lit by the nodding lanterns held by those who see your journey in their own memories.  Good night, then, and sleep in quiet calm, your heart beating softly steady as you visit places unknown, through the deepest levels of somnolence.  Thank you, old friend.