Requiem for a Tercel

I spoke to my father last night about the prognosis on my car. The news wasn't good.

Basically, the engine is completely blown. The mechanic said we could look for a new engine from a junkyard, but it would cost about $1500 and would only have a 30 day warranty. And since I've been driving this car since March 1991, I think it's time to just let the poor thing rest in peace.

It's really hard to let go, though. I've become really attached to my car. It was the first car that was actually mine, with my name on the title. I've got a lot of memories connected to that big blue hunk of metal.

I remember the night my sister Sydney picked me up from my job while my parents had gone car shopping. My previous car, the Escort from Hell, had burned to a fiery crisp after stalling out upon the exit ramp on the way to school, and my parents had spent the last few nights at car dealerships looking for a replacement. I knew that the Toyota dealership had been on that evening's agenda. "So do you know if they found anything?" I asked as we left the mall.

She shrugged. "I dunno. They said they were still thinking."

And of course, the car was already sitting in front of the house. Sydney was very pleased with herself since she had assisted in fooling me.

This was the car that got me to every job I've had in the past ten years, every club or party I've attended in that time. It weathered two trips to Chicago (one trip in late December where the heater only worked intermittently), several trips to Wooster, and too many trips to Dayton to count. And I've personally driven it over practically every inch of road in the greater Cincinnati area.

Over that time, it suffered numerous dents and dings, and a rear-ending that made me two hours late for a first day of work. I never had the bumper repaired, and it was held onto the rest of the car by bungee cords for almost eight years.

My car was broken into four times: once while sitting in the driveway of my parents' suburban home, twice downtown, and once in my parking lot on Christmas Day. I became an expert at calling the glass replacement guys and totalling up the stolen items. (Ashtray, eyeglasses, binoculars, an umbrella, a six-pack cooler with an inch of rancid water left over from a trip to Lollapalooza in Indianapolis, the knobs from the car stereo, stereo speakers, Christmas cookies, my entire catalog of holiday CDs, and a cheap glass pendant from the Accessory Place.)

I occasionally remember seeing the floor and the back seat of my car, but not often. Most of the time the floors were covered in empty cigarette packs, empty Diet Coke bottles, Burger King wrappers, and ATM receipts. Even now there's a full Halloween costume in the back seat, and the entire contents of my desk from my last job are in boxes in the trunk, along with books that I've bought at the last two library sales on Fountain Square.

This was the car that I learned a little basic car care in... the hard way. I learned how to check my oil and add it when needed. I went through numerous cans of Fix-a-Flat in desperate attempts to patch holes in the tires. I learned how to properly add coolant to the radiator once when the car overheated and I was determined not to call my father for help. I helped jump start the battery when it died in front of Taco Bell two years ago. (OK, Roger Mexico did almost all of the work. I watched and looked panicky.) And of course, there's the brand new never-been-used headlights that Zappagirl and I installed Saturday night.

It's really hard to believe that my car isn't sitting in my parking lot right now. My keychain feels lighter and strange in my hands. I lived in that car. I changed clothes in that car. I ate way too many meals behind the wheel. I slept between jobs in the driver's seat when I was closing at the Warehouse and opening at Best Buy. I laughed at the impending mischief of the night's activities, I cried over broken hearts, spilled coffee and burned holes in the upholstery, got ketchup and mud and blood and cigarette ash everywhere. I sang along to the radio while I drove, white-knuckled my way through rainstorms and snowstorms and drives with little or no sleep. I carted around family and friends all over the place. All three of my cats came home in my car.

Roger Mexico once asked me why I paid ridiculous amounts of money to drive and park when I worked downtown when I could just as easily take the bus, and then stopped. "Never mind," he remarked. "I already know the answer. You love your car too much to leave it sitting there."

He was right. And it's breaking my heart right now that I have a spare key on the key hook by my door that no longer goes to anything.