By My Own Hand

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Car death, and grieving

December 2000

Well. I just sold my car to the glue factory, after years of faithful service and getting me everywhere I needed to go. I feel so evil, as if I've betrayed it, or buried it alive, or something. I loved that car, but she was just ... old. She was 11, with nearly 150,000 miles on her. In economy car years, that's something like 100.

I learned how to drive in this car, when I was 19 and it was my mom's, and it was new. A few years later, she gave it to me rather than sell it when she needed a bigger car. I had that car through a marriage and a divorce, and previous relationships, and a new marriage, and several jobs. I had that car through the move to Oregon and the move back to Cali. I drove that car to Austin when I moved here, 2000 miles, uncomplaining. That car moved my belongings countless times, went to clubs and parties and took myself and many of my freinds everywhere.

I fixed it when my mom borrowed it and a tree fell on it, starring the windshield and denting it. I patched the dents with bondo and repainted the repairs, I replaced the windshield. I knew how to change its oil and change its tires. When a homeless person pried the lock out of the passenger door in order to sleep in it, I glued the lock back in. When my evil ex-boyfriend kicked out my headlights, I hunted for replacements and installed them. I bought a car bra to cover the gash in the bumper from the time I got hit.

It had a silly name, "The Little Red DeathBox", because everyone I knew was convinced that we'd all die if we were in an accident. It had a bunch of stuff on the dashboard, a basket of dried roses, a Malificent pen, a turtle and a gecko and a witchy doll that my ex gave me 'because it looks like you'. I had wrapped the steering wheel in sticky-felt and trim with tiny roses on it.

I can no longer trust my car to take me where I need to go. It screams in second gear - even after a tuneup -, the gas gauge shows empty when it is a gallon below full, it has no radio and the heater has been going out for a year. The sunshades fall off if you try to use them. When the radio still worked, three of the speakers were blown. It hasn't had a working interior light or dash clock for four years, despite fuse changes and new bulbs. Now, I'm moving to another city, four hours away from where I live. It would cost so much to get her fixed to the point that she was driveable, or even just to have her moved for us, that it is really pointless. Something else would fail soon anyhow.

I feel so guilty about it, as if I gave up too soon. Yesterday I cleaned it out, and took all my goodies off the dashboard. I took my toolkit out of the back, took my emergency books (just in case I needed something to read) and my spare shoes and t-shirt out of the trunk. I took the pillows out of the back seat. I found tapes form when the tape player last worked, three years ago. I debated taking the stickers off, but opted not to. They'd been on so long they were brittle. I said goodbye then. I cried.

Today, the nice man from the auto wreckers came and took the paperwork and put her on the truck, and I signed her over to be hacked up for what is usable. They'll take the headlights and signals and any body panels that are still ok. They'll pull out the seats and take her wheels and her tires, which are still new, since she fell apart right after I got her tires done. They'll take the repair manual and the real spare and the emergency spare and the jack. They'll pull her engine and her transmission and maybe have them refurbished.

At least she will go to help somebody else keep their little deathtrap going a little longer. Maybe some of her parts will get put on one of the ones that's been tricked out for racing (They do actually have racing Festivas, I've seen them). That's how I got her new headlights and her real spare, anyway, so I guess it's okay.

I got a check for $50, and I don't have to move my car. It doesn't feel okay.

It was only a car, right? Only a machine, an inanimate object, that cannot care what happens to it.

Then why do I feel like Judas?