To be considerate of the feelings of inanimate objects is to be American. To mourn the sale of one's car, is human.
Mechanical devices have yet to be accurately personified. I may have driven my '89 Camry to Chicago, and to Minneapolis countless times, but it hasn't 'seen a lot' any more than you can dismantle your television to find the cast of your favorite show having tea in their dressing rooms. A gradeschool teacher said many memorable things; one of which was his theory that all sound could be brought back from any room; as though the walls logged the vibrations from within it. He was also thrilled when he figured out how to record an entire day's worth of surveillance by connecting an early home video camera to a vcr containing an 8 hour tape. I think he liked to make us nervous.
The cigarette-burned bucket seats and the rear-right window that doesn't unroll could easily echo nearly every Frank Black or Pixies song, or perhaps whispered conversations about the front-seat folks. The interior certainly wouldn't speak of any sexual relations, at least of my making. The car was previously owned by a librarian. Perhaps the engineers knew what they were doing when they only taught the thing to say 'beep,' 'vroom' and 'errt.' No, this car was purchased at a retrospectively low period of my young life. Though while driving it 40 miles from town, I had never felt as at home.
It sat for over a year, collecting the dried up reproductive extremities of overhanging trees. The '85 Dodge Aries owned previously managed to collect a family of mice. The Toyota Sedan of which I lament was in stagnation much longer than was the Aries, but apparently urban wildlife are a good judge of what potential homes look as though they are going to move again.
For a year it sat, catching my occasional frown on my way to the image-destroying Mom-mobile. It was a more-than classic case of the funny noise going away once the vehicle was in the presence of skilled wrenches. Occasionally, the beast bottomed out, balls to the floor, at 40 miles per hour, but only when I was driving alone. The nearest Toyota dealer was well out of the car's operating range, and the local, recommended, repair shop refused to 'nickle and dime' around the problem, to ultimately total the car.
But tonight, "I remember you," I'm sure I said aloud. I took the key from the ignition while it ran, stopped the wipers halfway up the windshield, made sure the rear-right window was stuck in place, fiddled with the factory rheostat volume control on the tape deck, and flicked some ashes in the lighted ashtray. Wisconsin law says it's ok to drink in thine auto so long as thine key is not in thine ignition. Engine off, music on, key out, drink up.
She never could get a name to stick, the old Camry. '19th Nervous Breakdown,' though perhaps a supertitious flirt of a name, was taken by a friend's car. I remember tossing around 'Camile.' Not sure why... Oh, yeah, I get it.
With the reconstruction of north downtown Milwaukee, destruction came to auxillary parking for students. For this reason, and the stories I've heard involving purchasing gas at inner city stations unwittingly located to make metropolitan drivers seriously reconsider contributing to traffic density, I will not be setting sail for school in this vehicle. Besides, I'd be waiting for the moment the RPMs fly and the speedometer sinks. She broke my trust, and that's something you don't do... Contrary to my forgiving nature with animate objects.
The Kelly Blue Book tells me I can pull more money for the thing than I paid the librarian--Provided of course it is in pristine 'fair' condition. Will the new owners peel the CD stocking stickers from the dash? Is the Smugglers Canadian flag sticker on the bumper doomed to be replaced by an American flag? Will one fly from the antenna? I was told the two successive previous owners saw the car in a parking lot and identified it immediately by the dimples on its rear bumper. Easily personified, like an old flame.
