Car Troubles

Car ownership is helping me ease into the idea of being a Passenger Princess

Last week I went through an experience that forced me to put my SIM card in my iPhone for two days. If you have no idea what I’m talking about or where my SIM card would be if it’s not in my iPhone, please read this post about the Light phone that I now use as my every day communication device. Buying a car under duress means taking extreme measures. It means taking out that old drug—the smart phone because the world expects you to be able to send emails and forward documents and sign papers with the device you carry in your pocket.

It’s amazing how bad it got in my car before I finally threw in the towel. I was dead set on getting to 300,000 miles which now that I think about it is just another example of me trying to be extreme and prove something to someone even though no one ever asked for it.

She died on the Conejo grade at 289,000 miles while I was on the way to look at a replacement car in the valley. I had a fantasy about how the day was going to go. We were going to drive down, take a little spin, trade in the Honda, and drive back home in comfort and air conditioning.

We ended up riding home in a tow truck.

So, I secure the sale of a new-to-me car and I’m in it with my cousin’s three kids and my sister. They all approve of it, say it’s much better than that other one. They used to tell me my car smelled and they didn’t like it. The youngest somehow notices my phone for the first time when I pick it up to check my messages.

He yells, “What is that?”

When I tell him it’s my phone he starts laughing and asks if it cost $4.

No it doesn’t have games no it doesn’t have a camera, and no it is not exciting to play with. Three minutes later, his brother tells me that he broke the car already. I look back and one of the interior panels is kind of sticking out at an angle that makes it look like it could be torn off. I futz with it for a couple of minutes and am able to snap it back into place. All of this after Trish and I keep telling them they have to wait until they’re out of the new car to eat their snacks. This is how a car becomes mine, in the very particular way that it falls apart.

By the time she died, my Honda no longer had a functioning air conditioner or stereo. The hood was rusted and the front bumper was just black plastic while the rest of the car was silver. The body at top of the windshield was corroded and flaking off despite the layer of Bondo I used on it five years ago. When it rained, water seeped through and pooled in the gutter above the front seats. Any sharp turns would send a waterfall onto either the driver or passenger depending on whether it was a right or left. If I forgot to put a tarp on during a heavy rain, the floor at the back of the car would become a small pond. During her last week there were actually some seeds that germinated in the carpet, and four adorable little seedlings might still be growing in it somewhere. There was also something that was draining the battery every time I parked it, so I had to disconnect it at the terminal if I knew I would be parked anywhere for an extended period of time. It guzzled oil at an alarming rate. I bought it in five gallon jugs. I bought more motor oil than cow or nut milk combined last year. Also, the key to the ignition did not match the key to the doors, so I had to use keyless entry to get in which didn’t function with the battery disconnected. If I parked for longer than a few hours, I had to both leave my doors unlocked and my hood unlatched to ensure I could still gain entry to the car. I also was no longer able to access my spare tire since the bolt that held it in was basically rusted shut. I was willing to put up with all of this if she would just keep going. I just wanted her to get to 300,000.

When the guy from Cars for Cash took the title, my daughter came out of the house and hugged the car. She says she doesn’t remember any other car. We should have had some kind of ritual, but I think the car and I both felt betrayed by each-other. I think she knew I was about to trade her in. She only had 30,000 miles when I got her, so 259,000 of those miles were ours together. It feels callous that I sent her away. She was stolen twice, crashed, repossessed. She’s driven me up the 101 too many times to count, through the most beautiful terrain with the most beautiful people. I’ve needed help. I’ve felt alone as a poor single mom with just this one thing—this one possession that has carried my daughter and I through all of it.

How many times have I asked for help?

When my credit score was 515 and I had only liability insurance yet managed to rear-end someone I had to get help from my dad to have the front end fixed and radiator replaced. He showed up at the body shop with his credit card. When it was reposessed in one of my guiltiest moments even though it was in my uncle’s name and I was supposed to be paying him, I disappeared from all of my bills, ignored his phone calls, but continued to show up at the bar. My mom swept in as she always does with money and love and not a word to make me feel shame. She comes with her own admissions of guilt at being a poor single mom who was bad with money and that we all get help from our parents, and please just let me help you.

Everyone shows up for me. When I think about it—like really think about how much my life depends on help from everyone else, it almost hurts to consider all the love. My daughter just got back from Paris, from a trip with her dad’s mom. When I was her age, her dad took her and I up in a chartered plane for Valentine’s day. I had never flown, so we strapped her carseat into the tiny plane, and a pilot flew our little family of three up above the county and brought us back down into the same airport we flew out of. It was a grand gesture to show me what flight was like. You want to give your kids more than you had, and yeah, my kid has seen and been given so much—and not just by me but by everyone. I talk about how poor I am, but it’s only because I want to be independent. It’s this American fantasy of pulling oneself up. I will never be able to say that I pulled myself up, and why should I and how can anyone? Everyone pulled me up and kept pulling me up and to this day they continue to pull me up. One day I will be old and less mobile, and someone may have to pull my pants up.

What is this drive to prove independence? You belong to everyone and everyone belongs to you. My old car reminds me of everyone who loved me and everyone I loved. I had sex in the passenger seat. I slept in the back in Joshua Tree when I didn’t want to sleep in a tent on a freezing night. I screamed on the way home from a breakup. I carted smelly teenage girls home from school. I smoked cigarettes. I idled. I sped. I ran red lights. I was reckless and lonely and in love with the world, and now she is gone and took all the evidence of love with her. She is somewhere out there being dismantled, maybe being smashed into a more compact version of herself, a cube of disintegration.

It’s Monday night, and I’ve had my new car for a little over a week. I start the drive home from work, nose of the car facing out in my parking spot because that’s how I flex my superiority. Something is wrong. I turn my stereo down for a block and listen to how loud it drives and feel how pushing the gas is not as effective as it should be. I think maybe I have a stick or a tree trunk lodged under my tire and pull to the side of the road to take a peek at it. I’m relieved to see that I have a flat. This is normal car trouble, and I’ve seen that there is a jack and a never-been-used spare tire in the trunk. I take out all of the equipment, lay it out on the sidewalk next to my car and notice that there is no tire iron. Another chance to prove my independence is foiled as I end up calling Peter who I know is still at the restaurant to help me out with a tire iron. At the same time Peter pulls up, so does officer Eric who sees me on the side of the road and has the right tire iron for my car. Eric raves about the samosas he gets from the restaurant where Peter and I work. He asks how long I’ve been waiting on the side of the road, and I tell him, “like five minutes.” Peter jumps in and does the dirty work, and the spare is on in a few minutes which I could have done to prove I’m an independent woman, but I’m not. I need everyone.

On the way home, I’m just glad. A new tire is an unforeseen expense, but nothing I can’t handle, and I have the whole day off tomorrow to get it done and write and draw and make beef stew. Maybe I can even get Karli to come with me to the tire shop. I know she has a crush on one of the guys who works there. Might be fun to watch the awkward chemistry pass between them. This is how a car becomes mine, in the very particular way it shows me I’m not alone.