*sniff*
I feel so dirty, so unfaithful. There's someone new and all I can think about is dishonoring your memory. This one has little of your panache, but sometimes I'm lulled into contentment by the little joys -- if I can even enjoy it -- of knowing it all comes along with few of your flaws, all the agony you inflicted upon me. Maybe one day I'll be over you, but you were my teenagehood, my college years, you saw the best of my youth.
The car I used to have died an ugly death of transmission failure December 22, 2005. You were my first, my everything. A Pontiac Bonneville, 1988 and already used a decade by my grandfather. We spent a year and a half getting me up the hill and down the hill to high school; commuted to 4 different jobs; we discovered indie rock together with the stereo up, found Echo Park and East L.A. and the last unbuilt spots above the Palisades, soaked up dozens of quiet dark beach nights, alone and with company--none of whom ever understood you like I did, even the sly pretty ones who laughed knowingly at your fuzzy red dice. I must have eaten a hundred burgers in you, dripped Tommy's and Jay's Jayburger (which I mourn as well!) and In N Out all over your fraying tan upholstery. No, this is too much!
You'd punish me, break down at a whim. A routine shift could spell disaster, one KaTHUNK and it's Gear Roulette, and on an automatic no less! The probably-unscrupulous mechanic who worked on you first, who changed your oil and fixed your radiator, was probably running down your batteries as well. If only you could have told me, warned me, begged me to save you!
At least later the mechanics loved you, said you had more power than I deserved; but I guess I'm drawn to power like yours, V-6 power, barely smog legal, a hulking steel dinosaur in the Ice Age of 2005. I thank God you never had to see $3 gas, had to face your little mileage problem--but I thank him again for the time we went past where the speedometer would measure, for hundreds of nights racing home down the 101 or the 405, for never having to worry about anyone even thinking about breaking into you, Club or no.
You were the best deal of my life and the worst investment; 1 dollar to Grandpa brought you home, but you devoured thousands just to keep running. You had no anti-lock brakes and no airbags and no CD player--and all the adapters crackled and hissed, distorted and went through a single speaker at a time -- and the seat controls snapped off every time I moved my foot wrong. But it was love.
I've wronged you: I promised you a eulogy when you finally gave up the ghost, gave up every gear but first, when I gave you up to Habitat for Humanity. I just hope someone's found you, gotten you back together, can give you the love you deserve! But they'll never know you as the Sex Chariot, as the Grandpamobile, as Uncle Morty. As mine. And unless i'm in just the right mood, they'll never know the stories behind them.
You would have loved my iPod, received 3 days after your messy, limping-home death, pronounced posthumously to the tune of "$2000 or more to get running." Half my favorite music-listening experiences were in you, even after one speaker went distorted and never came back. You would have loved my coming road trip down to Florida, with your monstrous old A/C and your all-American physique. I would have loved the company, crossing a vast chunk of America like that with you. But my parents never trusted you, justified or no, and your furthest trips were those couple to Orange County: Santa Ana once, Huntington Beach. I hope you get a little travel in, now that you're gone.
I have to talk about you now because of that someone new, because of the eager little Ford Focus who tries so hard to erase your memory. Sure this one's more sophisticated, up on all the latest trends, and very frugal. I even think we could do some beautiful things together. What do you expect from a cute little hatchback? And our young relationship is eerily smooth and drama-free; it's just less of a rollercoaster, and i'm in a point in my life where I really need that stability, where I need a car who can take care of me. But whatever I start to feel here in this, that won't replace you; nothing could, no one could. And nothing could ever make me forget.
The car I used to have died an ugly death of transmission failure December 22, 2005. You were my first, my everything. A Pontiac Bonneville, 1988 and already used a decade by my grandfather. We spent a year and a half getting me up the hill and down the hill to high school; commuted to 4 different jobs; we discovered indie rock together with the stereo up, found Echo Park and East L.A. and the last unbuilt spots above the Palisades, soaked up dozens of quiet dark beach nights, alone and with company--none of whom ever understood you like I did, even the sly pretty ones who laughed knowingly at your fuzzy red dice. I must have eaten a hundred burgers in you, dripped Tommy's and Jay's Jayburger (which I mourn as well!) and In N Out all over your fraying tan upholstery. No, this is too much!
You'd punish me, break down at a whim. A routine shift could spell disaster, one KaTHUNK and it's Gear Roulette, and on an automatic no less! The probably-unscrupulous mechanic who worked on you first, who changed your oil and fixed your radiator, was probably running down your batteries as well. If only you could have told me, warned me, begged me to save you!
At least later the mechanics loved you, said you had more power than I deserved; but I guess I'm drawn to power like yours, V-6 power, barely smog legal, a hulking steel dinosaur in the Ice Age of 2005. I thank God you never had to see $3 gas, had to face your little mileage problem--but I thank him again for the time we went past where the speedometer would measure, for hundreds of nights racing home down the 101 or the 405, for never having to worry about anyone even thinking about breaking into you, Club or no.
You were the best deal of my life and the worst investment; 1 dollar to Grandpa brought you home, but you devoured thousands just to keep running. You had no anti-lock brakes and no airbags and no CD player--and all the adapters crackled and hissed, distorted and went through a single speaker at a time -- and the seat controls snapped off every time I moved my foot wrong. But it was love.
I've wronged you: I promised you a eulogy when you finally gave up the ghost, gave up every gear but first, when I gave you up to Habitat for Humanity. I just hope someone's found you, gotten you back together, can give you the love you deserve! But they'll never know you as the Sex Chariot, as the Grandpamobile, as Uncle Morty. As mine. And unless i'm in just the right mood, they'll never know the stories behind them.
You would have loved my iPod, received 3 days after your messy, limping-home death, pronounced posthumously to the tune of "$2000 or more to get running." Half my favorite music-listening experiences were in you, even after one speaker went distorted and never came back. You would have loved my coming road trip down to Florida, with your monstrous old A/C and your all-American physique. I would have loved the company, crossing a vast chunk of America like that with you. But my parents never trusted you, justified or no, and your furthest trips were those couple to Orange County: Santa Ana once, Huntington Beach. I hope you get a little travel in, now that you're gone.
I have to talk about you now because of that someone new, because of the eager little Ford Focus who tries so hard to erase your memory. Sure this one's more sophisticated, up on all the latest trends, and very frugal. I even think we could do some beautiful things together. What do you expect from a cute little hatchback? And our young relationship is eerily smooth and drama-free; it's just less of a rollercoaster, and i'm in a point in my life where I really need that stability, where I need a car who can take care of me. But whatever I start to feel here in this, that won't replace you; nothing could, no one could. And nothing could ever make me forget.