Today I said my final goodbyes to my car. I know many of you are thinking "what a whacko" and wondering why the hell I seem obsessed with this piece of shit. Well, let me tell you.
When I bought the car, I did so on the heels of driving a series of embarrassments. There was the loud-as-hell Duster (who, actually, in her prime WAS a zippy little fun-to-drive car, but deteriorated rapidly into what's commonly known as "Old Plymouth Disease"). Before the Duster there was the Pontiac Sunbird Wagon that I paid $300 for and was held together with duct tape and spray paint, and had a driver's side door that didn't open from the inside. Before that was the Sentra that I crashed on Kimball Road my senior year of college. And before that...well, there was that glorious summer when I got to drive the GTO around town, wreaking havoc and striking fear in the hearts of my friends as I tore up the Southtowns in it, but it wasn't my car, so I can't really count it.
Anyway, when I bought my old red girl, it was a proud moment in my life. It was the nicest car I'd ever owned, and it was mine. To me it symbolized more than just a car. It symbolized my life as a grown-up, my "real" job, and the fact that I was now a card-carrying adult. Not only had I qualified for a loan for the second time in my life, but this time I'd qualified AND driven away with a car I was deliriously happy with. I remember the day I drove it off the lot, grinning from ear to ear. I think it took about three days before I could stop smiling. And I was one of those "watchers," you know, the people who can't help but watch their reflection in every plate glass window along their route.
At the insistence of my friend Gus, I had to name her. Other cars of mine had had names (the Duster was known as "Dusty" and the "Dustbuster" and the Sunbird was nicknamed "The Tank") but this car deserved something more dignified. She was thus crowned "The Red Baroness."
The Baroness, as she was more casually known, was my pride and joy. While there was nothing truly special or unique about her, I took pains to take care of her, washing and waxing every week, cleaning out the interior and doing little mini-details. Of course, if you know me you know that eventually I stopped doing that on a regular basis and often allowed the interior to resemble the inside of a Dumpster, but it didn't mean I loved her any less. In fact it was a testament to my love and familiarity with her that I filled her with my books, coffee cups, clothes, art projects, bank receipts, Mighty Taco bags, and water bottles.
In recent years she'd started to show her age. Her body was falling apart, but her mind and heart were still sharp. And when she would break down, I had a phenomenal mechanic who fixed her right up each time. Yes, I know I complained about her and the headaches she caused, but it was with the utmost endearment, much in the same way that people get frustrated with their elderly parents' failing faculties, or complain about their geriatric pets peeing on the carpet, or even bitch about the spouse they've been with for half a lifetime. I used to joke that I wanted someone to hit it in a parking lot so I could get a new bumper, but you know that old saying "careful what you wish for..." It's true. I certainly didn't want someone to LAND on the hood and render it a total loss, fercrissake. Sure, she had her issues, but I'd had her long enough (eight years!) to know which issues I could ignore and which ones needed to be addressed, and I felt comfortable and safe inside. Like an old lover, she was familiar, and most of all, she was mine. And no one can deny that that car had some fucking character.
So today was the final installment in the saga, and I turned the keys and the title over to the insurance company, took the plates off, and cleaned out all the stuff inside. I was amazed at some of the stuff I found, too. The original sale paperwork from the car dealership. Receipts from Chicago businesses. A letter from a boyfriend I had in 2001. A paystub from 2004. An earring I hadn't seen since I worked at Home Depot. And while I managed to stay pretty strong and not cry this time (I'd already done that a few times over the weekend, including the night I went and parked my rental car next to the shop yard and bawled my eyes out for a good 30 minutes), it was still very, very sad and bittersweet. I just loved that car. I know she was an old and tired hunk of junk, but she was MY old and tired hunk of junk.
It truly is the end of another era. Rest in Peace, Miss Red Baroness, wherever it is that totaled cars go to rest. And if someone picks you up at auction and fixes you back up, I hope they love you as much as I did.
P.S. May the fleas of a thousand camels infest the armpits of Robert Weymouth, Jr.
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