mostly nonfiction and bakersfield news | October 26th, 2009
Good Grief, My Poor Car!
By Karen DeVincenzo
I went to the auto body shop today to remove items from my car that had been living in it longer than I can remember. You know, obsolete maps from the door pockets, stale tic-tacs and change from the glove compartment, the just-in-case toothbrush from the center console. They all got tossed into a box. A tear fell onto it all.
I liked my car. I was kind of fond of the little splits in the dashboard that Max had created with his drumsticks, the way the steering wheel felt in my hands, and the way it responded just so every time I stepped on the brakes. I felt like I was saying goodbye to an old, trusted friend. So sad.
I had not planned on parting from my car just now. It was all because of a darn Subaru moving on ahead behind me, just because the light was green! I had stopped because, in spite of the light being green, the car in front of me was stopped, as were about half a mile’s worth of cars in front of that one. The young lady behind me hadn’t noticed that fact. She only noticed the green light.
When something happens that is so unexpected and out of the ordinary, it scrambles your brain. One minute, we were sitting in the car, minding our own business, waiting for the unbelievable traffic to get unstuck, and the next minute the box of fresh-baked cookies I’d just picked up, that Max was perusing on his lap, was on the floor, my neck was snapped back and then forward and then back again. I heard myself say, as I put my hand on my neck, “Ow, that hurt.” and I heard Max say, “Did we just get in a car accident?!” And then all of a sudden, there was another crash. By then, I had no idea what was happening. But Max told me later that we also hit the car in front of us.
It didn’t matter that we were at the busiest intersection at the time. I got out of the car, leaving my door wide open, and walked to the car behind me. She was quite a bit more coherent than I was and suggested that we pull over into the gas station on the other side of the intersection. What? You mean the whole world isn’t going to stop because my car just got smashed up? But I got back into my car anyway, waited for the light to turn green and then proceeded to the gas station accompanied by a very loud scraping noise against my tire and the blacktop.
She was totally responsible for her mistake, gave me all her information. The tow truck came and hauled my car away. We drove home in a neighbor’s car and left my car in the hands of those who know what to do with cars in those kinds of situations. My poor car.
Who would’ve thought, watching the winch winding it up onto the tow truck bed, that it was done for. Over. Dead. I thought it would be hauled away and fixed. And then I’d be driving it again like nothing happened. When I first heard the word “totaled”, I had the classic reactions one has to grief.
First, denial. “No, certainly it’s fixable. MY car? It’s a good solid car. There’s no way that little Subaru did this much damage to my Audi! It is not totaled. They’re mistaken.”
Then, the anger. “Damn! I really liked my car and I was just minding my own business. What was that young lady looking at anyway, when she rammed into me?”
I asked her that, actually. “Where were you looking?” I asked her. “What?” was her reply. “When you ran into me. What were you looking at?”…because she certainly was not looking in front of her at the car that was taking up the space she was trying to occupy! After a while she was taking photos of the accident with her phone and I noticed how adept she was with the thing, holding it with one hand, pressing keys with her thumb, like it was an extension of her own hand. Ah ha! I knew it. That’s what you were looking at: a text message. Maybe. If she were, we would never know.
I started to bargain: “Let’s just have them fix it anyway. So what if it will cost more than what the car’s worth. Think of all the things we just had done to it. New studded snow tires. Oil change. New wiper blades. The heater switch works now. We can’t just toss all that away. “
Depression: I would never sit in that familiar seat again…the one that is worn just right to the shape of my body from all the commutes down to Max’s school every day. We’ve had so many hours together in that car.
After dropping off our neighbors’ borrowed car I walked several blocks to get to an appointment in town. I loved it. It was so nice to be a pedestrian for a change! I noticed all the new stores along the way that people had mentioned casually in conversations but having always driven by, I hadn’t noticed. It didn’t take anything to slip into the acceptance phase.
I suppose if we were going to have to be in an accident, this one was not as bad as it could’ve been so I’m grateful that we weren’t hurt more than we were. Grateful that there was another car for me to borrow until we could get one from the rental company. Grateful for the nice rental car. And hopeful that the next one will be better than the last.
After all, I was starting to get a wee bit tired of that green towel covering up the old duct tape on the passenger seat.
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KAREN DEVINCENZO writes from the mountains of Colorado where she lives with her husband, son and two dogs.
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1 Response for “Good Grief, My Poor Car!”
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There is something about that feeling of being yanked away so suddenly from one's car. It's weird how attached people get. I still mourn the loss of one that I totaled 8 years ago. I know I'm ridiculous.