Trading The Metal

Today was a good day for me, or so I thought. I had traded in my aged 4-door Taurus, after bleeding it as dry as turnip blood on a stone. In its place stood a bright red beauty that was not only economical but one that was guaranteed to turn some heads as well. It was only a 2-door used Ford Escort but it looked like a poor man’s sports car, complete with shiny alloy wheels, a power sunroof, and even a spoiler on the trunk lid that seemed to mean business.

Before I picked up my new car I took a big plastic bag and headed for the Taurus, determined to unearth and then empty any of the things that had accumulated over the years of being a part of my and my family’s lives. The ancient car sat there mute, somehow sensing that its days were about to end. It was old. It needed a lot of work. It needed front struts, new tires, a tune up, new shocks, and another realignment. It would have set me back a few thousand dollars to fix this relic that had served me well for over 105,000 miles. It just wasn’t worth the investment. It was suffering the automobile equivalent of being a senior citizen.

I attacked the glove box first. Hidden behind stacks of old emissions printouts, I discovered some MacDonald’s catsup packets, some old straws, still wrapped in their sanitary papers, a stack of crumpled napkins, an empty box of Tic Tacs, one of those 10-tool-in-one wonder gadgets, a valve stem, one winter glove, and some dog-eared roadmaps. The most recent one was printed in 1984.

I moved to the side door pouches. More ancient maps. I half expected to discover the long forgotten tattered remains of a map that might have guided ancient Romans down the Appian Way. But they were just the usual collection of New England maps. At the bottom of the pouch, sitting atop a tiny pile of discarded bandaids, straw wrappers, and an empty sugar packet were the crushed remnants of a AAA guide from Connecticut to New Rochelle. I had needed that once when my oldest daughter went off to college almost a decade ago.

Moving to the trunk, I discovered more mismatched gloves, a flashlight that still worked after more than 3 years of being relegated to that outpost, a collection of ropes, a wool blanket that had turned moldy, a hardball, a softball, and two melted roof shingles. I had kept the last two items in case I got stuck in the snow. I never did but an ounce of prevention saves getting stuck in the snow, or something like that. I also discovered an old blue blanket that I had used to cover the back seat when taking the dog to the vet those many times, and a carefully folded towel that I had used to wrap the body of our cat as I drove him, in his final turn, to the vet. He had suffered a heart and nothing could be done. I fingered the cloth, remembering how he loved to lay in the sun on the corned of the bed and sleep his life away.

My last chore was to remove the college decal that belonged to my son. It peeled off but as it did, it wrapped around itself and was ruined, its usefulness accomplished. He has graduated from there and we all remember where that was. We no longer need the sticker. It, too, represents past experiences. I will never forget it because I will probably pay for the cost of his education until I die.

I took the car out for one last round of errands, suddenly unwilling to let it go. It must be a feeling akin to making the decision that puts loved ones into continuing care facilities. You know it has to be done but there is no easy way to do it. And of course, the car seemed to run smoother than it had in years, as if making one final plea for automotive clemency.

As I drove down the avenue it suddenly hit me. I understood what I was feeling. I realized that unlike this car, my new car would be totally ignorant of the places we had been, the experiences that we had accrued, the continuum of our children’s youth as they needed to be chauffeured to this place and that, the good times and the bad times. This new car would have to be retrained. It would have to learn all the places I go to, unlike my old car that knew the way. This old one will take to its rest its metal memories of so many experiences and so many winding roads.

However, in all fairness, this new car will bring me to places that the Taurus never visited during its decade of service. The new one is like two people working on a second marriage. It has secrets of it’s own that will come out in time, but it has no institutional memory of my life and that is the only thing that matters to me. Yet I wonder what memories it holds locked inside its shiny red chassis. Perhaps this car has gone to some of the places I have only dreamed about.

I removed the key from the ignition and paused to look at the collection of keys on the ring. I examined them as if I had never seen them before in my life. There were 7 keys. Keys that controlled access. Keys that protected things of value. But value is a relative term and what is of value to one may not be to another. Value constantly readjusts; sometimes from moment to moment, sometimes from hour to hour, and sometimes from day to day. These keys had lived on that key ring for over a decade. Like the Taurus, those keys were linked to my past. And like the Taurus, they had served their purpose and were no longer needed. There were the ignition and trunk keys, a key to my parents’ garage door, 2 keys to locks on the doors of a house where I am no longer welcome, and a key to an ancient PC. I removed all of them except the key to my parents’ garage door. Soon the new car will learn the road from my home to their home.

So as I climbed into my new car, I averted my eyes from the old one, sitting quietly in the hot sun. I don’t know if it was by accident or happenstance, but the two cars seemed to be separated by a considerable distance. I wondered if this was deliberate on the part of the dealership-- remove the incoming patient from the health outgoing one. I put it out of my mind and concentrated on the salesman’s patter, glad to be diverted from my reverie.

"Good luck, sir! I know you are going to love this car!" the salesman piped.

I knew I would do just that. But I also realized how much I had loved my old one too. I had owned it for a decade and it had shared the intimate details of our lives. No matter whether it is a person or a family pet, a house or an old automobile, one thing is perfectly clear. It is always hard to say goodbye to old friends.