North Star Writers Group

My first car was a silver 1993 Oldsmobile Cutlass Cruiser station wagon. My family had used it for summer trips across the country, faithfully towing our comfortable, yet modest six-sleeper trailer. When my parents handed her down to me, she had already lived a full life, accumulating mileage and more than one vehicle’s share of bumps and bruises. But as I later discovered, that was all, merely a beginning.

Anything or anybody is a bit nervous in the hands of a new owner. Will he feed me well? Exercise me? Take me to the doctor when I’m sick? Will he speak well of me when I’m not around? When my father told my old car she would soon be mine, I can only imagine her begging for reconsideration. I was seventeen and stupid with nothing on my mind but surviving my last year of high school.

If my beautiful new car had prejudged me as reckless and irresponsible, she would have been correct. Almost before our relationship even started, I made a right-hand turn from the left lane and crashed her into a Cavalier. The physical damage was minimal, but the emotional damage – my guilt, her broken trust – was considerable. It was a rocky start for both of us.

It was three years before my next accident. In the meantime, we had the opportunity to strengthen our relationship by taking a trip from Philly to Pittsburgh, just the two of us. Pittsburgh involved a horrible experience with a girl, but the trip there and back was very beautiful and permanently grafted into my memory. My trusty station wagon and I got along famously – no tickets, no flats and no nagging complaints from the engine. Due to its ability to comfortably accommodate at least six college students – eight when necessary and nine, or even 10, when desperate – my car became the primary vehicle for midnight diner runs. Piled inside, we pushed my car to its limits, adding nearly half a ton of weight. Minutes later, we would emerge from my sleek, silver companion like clowns, one after the other, my car quickly reassuming her actual height. But I must admit that, over time, her original stature was permanently lost due to my incessant, selfish demands. But she kept on.

My second accident took place in downtown Philadelphia. This one was not my fault, and I think my car understood deep in her gears that I was not responsible. When the settlement check arrived in the mail a few months later, I think she understood that using it for college was a sign of trust, not neglect.

In 2004, I moved from Philadelphia to Seattle. She was 11 at the time, which is about 77 in Oldsmobile years, and everyone agreed that it would be crazy to take her across the country with me, absolutely nuts. But they never knew her like I did. I couldn’t just leave her. I would be crushed, and deep down, I think she would too. My father made the trip with us to keep me company, and reflecting now, I can’t imagine two people my car cared about more than the only owners she ever had. That can be the only explanation for how she got us there, past Pennsylvania, through the windy city, north, across the vast expanses of Montana and over the breathtaking Cascade Mountains of Washington. Four days, 2,900 miles, a flat tire and more than a few groans later, my father, my car and I arrived safely in Bothell, Washington, from where I would commute to Seattle Pacific University for over a year.

I should have told her before we left, but I’m afraid if I did, she would have refused to make the trip with me, that Seattle is replete with sloppy driving. We’re talking every lane is the slow lane, use your turn signal only when driving in a straight line, slam on the brakes when you see a pedestrian anywhere, which way is left, color blind drivers, which is why their cars hate them. In Philadelphia, my car enjoyed a yearly, comprehensive inspection. In Seattle, all that is required is an emission inspection. It is no wonder the beautiful air is polluted with automotive ignorance. Needless to say, in our two-year stint in Seattle (which I do love as a city, by the way), we were crashed into. And once again, I chose to spend the settlement money on tuition. I really hope my car understood.

I had not flushed her transmission in years, and yet she had always run beautifully. I was pretty faithful with oil changes, air filter changes and general upkeep throughout the course of our relationship, but I was highly encouraged to flush the transmission before my journey from Seattle to East Bay, California – the journey that would take me to my soon-to-be wife. It seemed like a fairly wise idea, and although I had very little money to my name, I put $325 into the vehicle before I embarked on what would be our final trip together.

When the transmission burned and turned black 320 miles later in Cottage Grove, Oregon, a humble farm town, I was crushed. With sadness in my eyes, I transferred all of my belongings from the greatest mechanical friend I’ll ever have to a U-Haul, and left her and a chunk of my heart with the manager of a towing station. At that point, she had a busted front headlight, a ripped panel on the front passenger door, a dent near the gas tank that looked like it was struck by a softball, a glove compartment kept closed by duct tape, a grill that tied in place with wire from a computer mouse, a ceiling that hung like a tent, a hood that barely opened and only three operational doors. If only my old car could speak, what stories it could tell.

I spent six months in Walnut Creek, California without a car because I couldn’t afford one. But in hindsight, it was only appropriate for me to take some time away from the world of motor vehicles for a while, to spend some time on foot, looking back with reverence on the most faithful, unconditional friend I would ever drive.

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This is Column # NS059. Request permission to publish here.