The end of an era
It matters to me
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
On a Wednesday afternoon in June, I slid the key to my fire-engine red 1995 Volkswagen Jetta from my key ring and handed it to a new owner.
The buyer was a bearded, kindly sort from Conway named either Bill or Bob. After a quick test-drive, he declared the car a fixer-upper with potential, forked over $600 — and started picking away the Jetta’s clear-coat with his fingernail.
My blood started to boil.
Technically, yes, Bill/Bob was the new owner; he could do whatever he wanted to it. And I’d been making fun of the Jetta — particularly the peeling clear-coat problem — since I started driving it six years ago. But at that moment, the clear-coat flake clouds parted, and I experienced a moment of clarity: I loved that piece of junk more than almost any other material object on earth.
The Jetta — affectionately referred to as The J-Ride, or simply The Ride, by my family — entered my life before my sophomore year of high school. My older brother Michael was tired of inconveniencing his teammates for rides to basketball practice. After much discussion, my dad agreed to buy him a car — but only if he gave me a ride to school every morning. Michael grudgingly obliged.
That first year, my only memorable interaction with the Ride involved sitting in the passenger seat nervously listening to Weezer’s Pinkerton on repeat to drown out my brother’s Nelly CD blaring from the stereo. I knew nothing of the Jetta’s life after 5 p.m., when Michael undoubtedly tested its speed and endurance in the suburbs of St. Louis. The Jetta’s schedule became even hazier when Michael took it to college. But once I joined him a few years later at Mizzou, we assumed joint custody over the bright red chariot, and the five-year window that followed marked the Jetta’s — and our — halcyon days.
Between 2001 and 2006, the Jetta became a legend. In the Beta Theta Pi parking lot, she stuck out like a sore thumb among the BMWs and SUVs belonging to Michael’s frat brothers, but more often than not, her comically toy-like appearance lent itself to all manner of shenanigans.
There was the time that Aaron Arnoldy decided he was too cheap to buy a mattress and stole one from the frat house instead. In the absence of bungee cords for securing said mattress to the roof of the Jetta, the boys got the next best thing: frat brother Hunger Wenger, who laid across the mattress and desperately held onto Michael and Aaron’s hands through the windows as they rode proudly, albeit slowly, down College Avenue. My experiences with the Jetta during this time were generally less dangerous but still memorable. I broke up with my first boyfriend in it. It got me to and from a number of concerts: The Arcade Fire, Tilly and the Wall, The Unicorns. My college boyfriend drove us to see the Biggest Tree in Missouri, a favorite Columbia landmark, one Valentine’s Day.
The Jetta was reliable, by which I mean I could always rely on her to be completely unreliable. Ours was a relationship riddled with frustration and anger, usually on my end. The cup holders were too small. There was no glove box. The dashboard display light quit working early on, and I eventually mastered the art of turning on an overhead light and wincing at the speedometer at night when I wanted to know how fast I was going. I used the sunroof only once before it broke and started leaking every time it rained. At some point, Michael accidentally spilled a bottle of motor oil in the trunk, tattooing the upholstery forevermore with what can only be described as the stench of an anatomy lab.
But I still loved her unconditionally. I didn’t have much of a choice.
The Jetta never really recovered after ushering me and all of my worldly possessions to Little Rock a year ago. Accelerating above 40 mph usually guaranteed a shuddering steering wheel and a flurry of curse words and prayers under my breath. Last winter, a friend asked if he could drive the Jetta and tore the right sideview mirror off when he drove too close to a garbage can. A couple months ago, while sitting with my friend Jessi in a Kroger parking lot, the alarm inexplicably went off for 10 minutes until a stranger kindly disconnected it, short-circuiting the stereo. That was the last straw.
Since selling the Jetta, I’ve been driving a 2001 Honda Accord, which has proven to be a more practical mode of transportation. The cup holders are the right size, and the AC works. Driving a car with a functioning dashboard light display has taken some getting used to; I still catch myself reaching for the overhead light at night.
Some days, I think about Bill/Bob in Conway, alternately whizzing around town in his new vehicle and chipping away the clear-coat with his fingernail. The Jetta isn’t much more than a hunk of metal and rubber. But if I could see her again, I would say one thing: You did right by me, old girl.
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