Ode to My Shit Box

Published November 13, 2007

By Lea McLellan

Maybe it’s because Thanksgiving is getting close and I’ll be going home for the first time since August, but I’m starting to get a little nostalgic. I miss things I never thought I’d miss: my evil cat that hates me, my brother’s freestyle raps, and even my car. I’m sure lots of freshmen miss their cars. Now that it’s getting miserably dark and cold, it would be nice to have some means of reliable transportation.

Still, I never thought I’d miss mine. By the end of the summer I was sick of paying for gas and I started to notice that I had to play my music a lot louder than usual in order to drown out that strange buzzing. I was actually psyched to leave my little turquoise ‘94 Mazda Protégé behind.

I won’t flat out say my car sucks because that would just be asking for trouble (it responds better to positive reinforcement.) Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly the sweetest ride in my high school parking lot. But my car and I have history, and even with its innumerable dents, scratches, and mysteriously permanent fingerprints on the ceiling, we formed a special kind of relationship.

Granted, we had a rocky start. The very first day I got my license, I picked up my best friend on the way to school. This was technically illegal, but also badass and totally necessary. We were in embarrassingly close proximity to school when scary black smoke started to pour profusely from the hood and it made a really frightening noise whenever I pressed the accelerator. The Protégé didn’t make it in that morning, but a couple weeks and a “new” transmission later, I was back on the road.

The “new” transmission was not new. In fact, it was also an old piece of crap. Like the car itself, it was “previously loved” and according to my mechanic uncle, it had to, “work out its kinks.” I didn’t know what this meant, but I soon found out. Working out kinks meant that I could push the accelerator to the floor and still only reach thirty-five miles per hour driving up hills.

Getting on the highway was always a kind of thrill. I’d cross my fingers, tell my car what a good car it was, slam my foot on the accelerator, and hope it would change gears fast enough so I could at least get to fifty-five before I incited some road rage.

I see my friends driving their dentless, shiny, fancy-shmancy cars that don’t need special encouragement to get up to speed, and I truly feel sorry for them. Having a shitty first car is a right of passage that they’re all sorely missing out on. But not I; I experienced that right of passage to the max and I miss it.

I miss the way it smelled like a musty old gym sock after it rained and puddles collected in the trunk. I miss the way the defroster never worked and I had to blindly drive around in a foggy death trap, how the license plate in the front was bent under from my hitting too many obstacles, and all the funny little noises it made. This may all sound pretty terrible to those spoiled enough to have their parents get them cars that actually worked and were safe to drive, but I believe my car’s defects enhanced our special bond.

We had an understanding. I accepted that it wasn’t a BMW, and it accepted that I wasn’t winning any Driver of the Year award. The sweetest part was, when I hit the basketball hoop in my driveway, the mailbox, the big tree in my yard, the curb, or my Mom’s mini-van, it really wasn’t such a big deal. The new dents blended in with the old.

Sadly, my reckless, messy brother has been driving my baby the whole time I’ve been away. I can just picture the backseat filled with his greasy Taco Bell wrappers and greasier adolescent friends. I’m sure he doesn’t even appreciate my strategically chosen bumper stickers or the spider man doll suction-cupped to the backseat window. My only comfort is that it wont be long before I’m behind the wheel again.

*Note to my car: when I said “shitty first car,” I meant to say, “pretty first car”… please don’t break down.

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