My First and Only Car, My Immortal Steel Chunk of EnlightenmentRemember that goldfish you had in college? No matter how much you neglected it, no matter how infrequently you changed the water, no matter how many Thanksgiving/Winter/Spring breaks you left it unattended and unfed…it would never die. Not that you wanted it to, God no. You were completely amazed by the little guy’s resilience and immortal powers. “Dude, I think my fish is a Highlander.”
No, you were never disappointed after coming home from, say, summer break to see him cutting through the Swamp Thing Housing Project his tank had become. Quite the opposite – you were SO impressed with and convinced of his higher power, you started seeing just how far you could push it. It became a little game you two played. And he always, ALWAYS won, much to your dorm’s amusement and worship. (Note – his death, in fact, has never been fully explained. Forensic experts claim it was at the hands of my irritable Russian roommate. But that’s for another post.)
That’s the Love Tractor. A maroon, four wheel drivin’ resilient steel Buddha that like Keith Richards I’m convinced can never be destroyed.
They called her the Jeep Cherokee. I called her the Love Tractor. She came to me as a family hand-me-down – a “please, take it” kind of transaction from an older brother who couldn’t wait to get rid of her and move on to something less “kickable.” I couldn’t have been giddier.
She hasn’t left my side since, and neither has the giddiness. Every house I’ve ever lived in, be it for a month or three years, since age 19 has had the Love Tractor’s oil forever mark its driveway, lawn, and inevitably its “less visible” sidewalk two blocks away. (The embarrassed roommates and neighbors who never appreciated her powers will eventually be revealed as heartless cyborgs). Her stories are the stuff of legend among family and friends, and when they speak of her it’s with shaking heads and a stifled laugh - of disbelief I’m sure. She’s transcended her existence of “car” and has all but earned a spot at the family dinner table. If she had any, I’m convinced my Mom would do The Love Tractor’s laundry.
The Love Tractor has stories. The late night “missions” and “front lawn fourwheelin’” in college which always led to her constant mysterious disappearances. We’d wake up in the morning and she’d be gone. We’d always find her a few hours later in other parts of town, either in front of bars or party houses. How she got there is anyone’s guess. (The Love Tractor keeps secrets.)
The now-countless 13-hour races across the desert from northern California to my folks' place in Phoenix. (11-hour, actually, but don’t tell my parents.)
The 2 a.m. multiple-360-degree spinout in the middle of Utah during the first odyssey across the Rocky Mountains, and the World’s Biggest, Whitest, Longest Blizzard on the way back.
The incident we shall refer to as “The Ditch” in Steamboat Springs, Colorado.
A drunk driver has rammed her. A drunk driver has driven her.
Despite the name, I never did “score” in her backseat. But she did magically drive me home in a wondrous daze shortly after my first time.
She’s been towed. Because of flat-tired necessity and at the hands of outstanding, um, indiscretions. (The Love Tractor cannot be bothered with the paperwork of mortals.)
The two-year span referred to as “The Horn Lottery,” during which time slight inclines in the road or idling for more than a minute inexplicably caused the horn to blow loud, intermittent staccato blasts into the ears of all nearby pedestrians, or “lottery winners.”
The day she received a cosmetic upgrade. New paint job? Hell no. Weightlifting trophy drilled into her hood as a new hood ornament? Hell yes.
Then one day, about the same time she began to develop a loose rattle, a deep ill-sounding chug and other noises not of this world and I began to wonder every time I put the key in the ignition, “is today the day?”, we were told that she would be lucky to make it six more months in the condition she was in. Devastated, I spent the next few weeks whispering the news to friends and morbidly thinking behind closed doors about life without her.
“Fix her,” they suggested.
“Ha! How do you fix your personal Jesus?” I retorted. “Certainly not with regular oil changes and a new set of rotors! Just let us have our last days in peace!”
That was three years ago. And I no longer trust the Judas-like behavior or foolish “standard care” advice of these “mechanics.”
Since then, the noises have persisted, if not grown louder, and the stories have continued to pile up. It’s almost like the mechanic motivated her to blow more valves and minds, his diagnosis a locker room post. It’s almost as if he challenged how deep my faith would go. He practically dared us to stop using oil, tune-ups and tire rotations all together. Well, The Love Tractor never backs down from a challenge.
My faith has never been more engine block-solid.
How else can you explain her recent miracle survival through a roadside operation to disengage and remove her drive train, drain her battery, tow her half way across the country, and then put her all back together in the rain, all with no manual or diagram? (See forthcoming
Tales From the Road – No Sleep ‘Til Denver post).
And much like the old dorm and the fish, my friends are in constant awe at her ability to continue truckin’ despite what may SEEM like my best attempts to slowly and deliberately put her down. But they don’t “get” the understanding the Love Tractor and I have. The Game we play. It’s not like I’m trying to kill her. I’m just here as a helpless opponent, a Washington Generals to her Harlem Globetrotters, throwing whatever futile blows I can at her as she brushes them off like her original paint job. Like those who watched their generation’s great sports figure in his prime (Ruth, MJ, Gretsky, Woods), I too am grateful for just having the chance to see it.
But The Love Tractor and I don’t kid ourselves. We can see the writing on the odometer. The paint is resigning to the rust. They always say that use of your turn signals is one of the first things to go. Try to throw a Beatles tape into her tape deck and you’ll learn that “Paul is dead.” Power steering – you don’t know how unnecessary it is until you’ve lost it.
It’s the vicious truth of life, and one day no matter how much faith I have or how much gas I pump into my tank…indeed I will pass away, like all humans, and she’ll have to find herself someone new to save.
But until then…late-night mission, nuclear fallout, my first kid’s prom limo, bank robbery getaway, fish-killer man hunt, stunt car or a search for life’s answers – there’s no one else I’ll turn to for help.
