Aging vehicle too comfortable to trade in
Perhaps I suffer from some sort of genetic defect. Despite that I am a relatively normal, red-blooded American guy in most every way (i.e., love sports, eat red meat, watch old westerns, cry during the National Anthem, etc.), I have never had an interest, let alone a fascination, with cars.
Whether this is due to “nature” or “nurture,” I can’t say for sure, since my father, too, seemed to suffer from the same affliction. When he bought a car, whether new or used, the determining factors for his choice were never engine size or design but, rather, more pragmatic considerations, such as will it fit our whole family and what could he afford.
If the car suffered any malfunction at all-clanging noises, failure to start, ineffective windshield wipers or anything else the old man couldn’t fix with duct tape-he simply took it to the neighborhood mechanic and said, “Fixit!”
Alas, I get no adrenaline rush walking into an Advance Auto Parts or Pep Boys. Truth be told, my wife enjoys a stroll through a hardware store more than I do. If anything, such venues are more likely to prompt in me a feeling of male inadequacy, as if some mechanic or handyman was going to pepper me with a handful of car or general repair questions and, based on my lame answers, would then kick me out of some “He-Man” club.
So, rather than view my automobile as either some sort of mechanical sweetheart or an extension of my manliness (“Hey, my engine’s bigger than yours!”), I’ve always considered a car as a necessary evil and nothing more; something to get me from Point A to Point B without using public transit or shoe leather. And, as my wife and I added three sons to our family, the standard became two cars: one for work and one for my wife to haul the kids, groceries and so on. (Our first extra set of wheels, purchased a number of years ago, was a bright tomato red minivan: embarrassing to drive but real easy to find in a mall parking lot!
So I’ve had a series of cars and I’ve viewed them as nothing more than a utilitarian pile of metal, runner and glass. But here’s the weird thing: the closer we get to trading in our current 2007 Hyundai Santa Fe, the harder it is for me to deal with the decision. True, the odometer did just shoot north of 120,000 miles, there are a few hard-earned dents and dings and the ol’ girl does seem louder than I remember when she starts up or we cruise down the highway.
But, for the first time in my life, I’m finding it hard to pull the trigger on the trade-in. It’s not just that I’ve started to equate such an act as treachery, like having a suffering old pet put to sleep or helping to pick out a nursing home for mom or crazy uncle Bob.
Indeed, there is a comfort factor associated with my car, not unlike a smelly old pair of sneakers. The seats have contoured themselves to my shape, so that I ease into the perfect driving position every time. And tucked between the seat cushions one would find — if anyone were actually brave enough to slide a hand down there — memorabilia that would piece together a decade of family history. Even the trunk is littered with dried up pine needles form Christmas trees past.
There’s even a metaphysical dimension to all this, the kind of angle Rod Serling would appreciate.
I think I’m becoming my car. Or maybe my car is becoming me.
Consider the similarities: creaking noises (its doors, my knees); coughing and wheezing to start the day; the regular appearances of rust/liver spots; knobs falling off versus hair falling out;’ saggy seats; little pep, especially going up hills; no admiring or jealous glances as we roll down the street; dim headlights and weak eyes. The list goes on and on.
But let’s say I give in and trade my car in on a younger, sleeker, more powerful model and my wife takes a fancy to it … wants to drive it all the time … likes to run her fingers across its sleek physique. What then?
If nothing else, it would make for a great sci-fi story: “At the signpost up ahead, you have now entered … the AutoZone!”
Ron Cichowicz is a western Pennsylvania-based writer and humorist. Contact him at roncichowicz@verizon.net.