Car talk

I think my car knows my dad died.

I don't have the greatest car in the world. It's a '97 Chevy Cavalier and it was 10 grand brand-new. It's never been a great car and in fact it loses value by the second. It's like those car commercials where money flies out the tailpipe as the car goes down the road. It's got I think barely 80,000 miles on it and it's worth about $1200.

I digress. Despite not being the best car in the world, it really hasn't given me much trouble in the seven years it's been mine. A few years back I had a new A/C put in, and I think a few other fairly important things have been replaced, but it's usually good about starting up when I turn the key and the gears shift properly and it gets me from here to there with very little fuss. Also, I can make a U-turn in a lane and a half in that little car, no mean feat I assure you.

So despite its shortcomings, I dearly love my little car. I try my best to take care of it. And when my dad was alive, he kept it maintained and changed the oil and rotated the tires and that sort of thing. And my little car was happy.

Since my father died in September, I have had my car towed to the shop three times, and this evening marked my second flat tire in six months. I'm on my second battery in four months, and I have reason to believe that the alternator isn't going to last much longer. This car has given me nothing but trouble for the past six months.

In all fairness, some of the trouble started while my dad was still alive strictly speaking. The first flat tire, for instance, happened in the parking garage on third and I discovered it while driving myself and my mother home from St. Joe's on a Saturday night when we thought he might still wake up at some point. But it's like my car just knew. It knew that it was up to me to maintain it. And I am crap at maintaining cars.

As luck would have it, my brother has referred my mother and me to one of the last honest mechanics in the state, so we haven't had to pay an unreasonable amount of money to keep it going. But it's times like these that I miss my dad. The auto shop is, incidentally, right across the street from the cemetery. So every time I'm down there, I sort of glance across Main street and think, oh, Dad. If only you were here.

But he's not, and he won't be again. I like to think that my car knows this, and that it's not breaking down to be difficult. I think it misses him, too.