Not So Attached as All That

Dearest Rachel –

For some reason, your family had a habit of naming most of your vehicles. I don’t remember all the name, to be sure – Sweet Fawn comes to mind, as that was the one you and your mom were in a fiery wreck with when you were only two or three, but it became part of your family lore. And then there was Barney, your dad’s first PT Cruiser, so named for its rear doors that reminded him of a pair of barn doors; it didn’t hurt that the car was bright red, to add to the implication.

If memory serves, Barney was even the inspiration for them to get you a PT Cruiser of your own, when the local independent body shop/used car dealership got one in stock. As with so many gifts that you didn’t ask for outright, you weren’t particularly thrilled with it – especially since you had what you considered to be a perfectly serviceable set of wheels that got you down there to check it out in the first place – but you eventually warmed up to it. In fact, by the time poor ‘Cranberry’ got totaled in an accident of her own – as you told me about it, you were waved into traffic, and got hit as you pulled out in front of a well-intentioned but misinformed fellow motorist – you had us searching for someone, anyone offering a used PT for sale, followed by a custom paint job to make your replacement car that much more purple than Cranberry ever was.

For my part, I did name a few of my earliest cars. You’d remember Aki-san, the Toyota Starlet I had during my last year in college (and drove you and Elizabeth around in now and again, as well as others). Ironically, she was named after a girl the Asian Business class met in Japan; the professors leading the class took a detour to attempt to recruit her to enroll at Wesleyan (which probably allowed them to write off the travel as a recruitment expense), while we students recommended that she enroll at Grennell or Occidental instead (our reaction to our high rank in the US News & World Report surveys at the time was always “if we’re the best, what does that say about the other colleges we’re competing against?”), which I’m pretty sure she did, as she didn’t show up the next year at our university. And, of course, there was Rocinante, the old (70s-era) diesel Mercedes that I got basically out of college, named for Don Quixote’s broken down old horse. It’s still hard to believe how long that old nag lasted for us.

But from then on, I didn’t name my cars; I just didn’t get so attached to them as all that. A lot of it had to do with the fact that I didn’t really choose my cars; they were all hand-me-downs that I bought used. Granted, so were Aki-san and Rocinante, but when Uncle Dave and Cousin Jeff recommended them to me as they came across them through their own auto mechanic business, I felt like I had the right of refusal when it came to purchasing them. When Dad had put enough miles on his latest vehicle (which didn’t take all that long, since his sales representative business had him covering a lot of ground in the course of it) and offered me the opportunity to buy it from him, it was usually a deal that was too good to pass up (with better terms than I could get from any other seller), so it felt like I really kind of had to take him up on it.

None of which is meant as a complaint; far from it. But from the Taurus sedan, to the Windstar and then the Freestar and finally the TaurusX crossover that took you to your final destination five years ago – and I’m still driving, for some reason – I’ve never gotten sufficiently attached to them such that I’d name any of them (apart from referring to them by their model) or that I’d really get all broken up about them if and when I had to part with them.

With all that having been said, I brought the crossover in to the dealership, since I’d been getting calls and messages from them about how I hadn’t brought it in for service recently (which is quite true, as I tend to prefer the local Jiffy Lube for oil changes and the like), and would I be willing to do so. As it so happens, I’ve been having issues with certain sensors going off – including at least one that indicates that the fault lies with the sensor itself, which is why I’ve gotten into the habit of ignoring them – so having them take a look at them seemed like a good idea, as well as getting my oil changed, which was rather close to being due.

As it so happens, I knew that the tire pressure indicator was legit, as I’ve had to fill my rear passenger side tire up every couple of weeks; however, the fact that the sensor was telling me that it was on the fritz caused me to ignore it more than I probably should. It turned out that the tire had two nails stuck in it that were leading to the slow leak.

After handling the basic service, the mechanic pointed this out, as well as the fact that replacing the tire would cost $250 or so, as would replacing the sensors – which burn out after a length of time; this is apparently a normal thing once a car reaches a certain age. However, he advised against bothering; the rust on the undercarriage has gotten such that this car is not long for this world. “Any more money you put into this thing is like… well, you might as well light it on fire.”

You know, I wonder if this isn’t part of the whole game with an auto dealership – it’s not as if Daniel has ever gotten his mechanic at Link to suggest that he replace your purple PT, even as I think he needs something that’s more… him (and your car is getting absurdly old; a couple more years, and it would be a certifiable antique at twenty-five years of age). They want me to buy a new car from them – as if I’m wedded to the idea of owning a Ford, like Dad or my sister. But at the same time, I’ve been considering replacing this thing – it is pushing eighteen, after all – but I haven’t had any pressing need to do so.

Well, not until now. And seeing that my Twike won’t be available for at least another year and a half (and I’ve been talked out of my tuk-tuk dreams by Grok, of all people – which is a story unto itself, but for another time), it’s time to get rid of this thing (after emptying it out first, of course) and get something new. But I told him I’d have to wait until I got back from Japan first, and he seemed fine with that. After all, he was a mechanic, not a salesman per se.

So another bit of the way things were back when you were still here is about to be taken away. It needs to be done, and I’m not so attached to it as all that, but it’s just weird to see it happen. Now I just have to decide what I want to replace it with – and hope it isn’t one of those things that dies at every intersection it stops at.

In any event, keep an eye on me with regard to this decision, honey, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.