So Long, Old Paint

Yesterday, two young men came to our house. One, a neighbor’s son; the second, a friend of his to whom we’d promised my old car. He didn’t seem to mind the rust and wasn’t spooked by the odometer reading or the age of the thing and was willing to shell out for a new catalytic converter, so it would probably make him a serviceable set of wheels.

For nothing, yet. Frankly, I didn’t care about getting any money for it. Right now there are enough things in my life taking up space reminding me that I can’t yet deal with them; I just wanted this one gone.

And all I had to do was say the word. Call the neighbor’s kid and tell him the paperwork was done, so all that remained was to take off the plates and transfer the title and his friend could drive it away.

The guy brought his own tools.

I was caught off-guard by the whole exchange. I missed the phone message that they’d be over in twenty minutes, so I was on the treadmill, at the end of a difficult day, and Husband, huffing his annoyance all the while, couldn’t find the title (admittedly, in my fuzzy brain made fuzzier by muscle relaxants, I told him I was certain it was in my top file drawer when it was in the bottom.) or my extra set of keys.

By the time I got off the ‘mill, the guys already had the plates off. Then I found the title (annoying Husband more by asking him to open the bottom file drawer), the keys, and the thought occurred to me that he should see if there was anything left in the car before it left my possession forever.

Husband cleaned it out. Huffing his annoyance at me while loading tote bags, old clothes, old journals, etc. into the garage. “How could I be such a slob?” “Why didn’t I ever clean my car?” “Now this house is going to be filled with more junk,” “When are you going to learn how to bend?” This added twist I’m sure he threw in just to get back at me for having the nerve not to recover as quickly as he wanted me to. Or having another back episode (which he could never seem to remember) when I was supposed to be better already.

I took a deep breath and told myself that neither of us are perfect and he was simply having a compassion meltdown – which is what happens to the person thrust in the role of caregiver when they don’t take time out to take care of themselves.

The kid knew enough that he had to write out a bill of sale, that we would both sign, which would be proof that the car wasn’t stolen. So we did that, I signed the correct places on the title, we shook hands, and the guys left, pretty satisfied with themselves.

“You don’t want to even say goodbye to it?” Husband said. “She served you well for a long time.”

I shrugged. “It’s just a car.”

“When did you get so unsentimental?” he asked.

“Life is short,” I said. “And it’s just a car.”

And this morning I started thinking about that. When I got rid of my last car (more specifically, when I got tired of not knowing when I put the key in if it would start or not, when I got tired of being afraid that it would die in the most inconvenient places in the area, when I got tired of putting the equivalent of a new car payment into my mechanic’s hand almost monthly, when I called a salvage company and had them tow the damned thing away), I was more sentimental. It was, after all, my first car. I’d saved up for it. To cover what I couldn’t, I got my first car loan. The heat didn’t work, as I found out when the weather got a smidge colder, and with a little help from the Consumer Affairs Office and Regional Toyota, I caught the dealer in a loophole and got them to fix it for free. And when the tow truck was on the way, I lovingly cleaned it out, got a neighbor to help take off the plates, and pried off the model name from the back of the car, just to have something to remember it by.

And this one: When the old Toyota died, we’d driven all the way to Montgomery (about 45 minutes) on a day that was hotter than hell to look at an automatic Toyota with low mileage and air conditioning, and I knew immediately it was to be my car because of the color. It was teal. I touched up the scratches. I never missed an oil change. I had all the recommended maintenance done. And yes, she served me well.

But when the time came I didn’t even watch her go.

There are still several boxes and tote bags downstairs that I have to go through (Left on the floor, of course, the equivalent of that episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond” where neither of them will give the other the satisfaction of removing the suitcase from the stairs). One of them is one of those Riuniti wine boxes that people use (or used to use, before CDs) to keep cassette tapes in. I used mine for hats and gloves. Kept them from getting separated.

There’s something else in that box. The nameplate from my first car. I probably won’t throw it away.

Who says I’m not sentimental?