I met a girl named Amy on the train. She worked on the 91st floor, of the wobbly when windy Sears Tower, while I was pursuing my everything under the sun college degree. Glances lingered on first sight, but it would take months before first contact.
Catching the train at the same stop allowed us continual flirty looks, but once boarded, we would occupy separate seats. I was never good at approaching a girl and pick-up lines filled me with an urge to blow nervous, embarrassed chunks. So it was surprising when, 2 stops from our mutual destination, I switched seats to sit next to her.
Amy was a beautiful Italian girl, who at 25, lived with her sister about a mile from my parent's house. She was a music fan, prankster, thoughtfully secretive, and my Yoda in all things intimate and otherwise sexual. I won't go into details, but finding yourself miles from home, clothed only in a trench coat and shoes on a frigid January night, interacting with another similarly dressed accomplice on the hood of a car, was every nineteen year old's dream.
Amy wouldn't drive with in me in my car. She was embarrassed by it. While probably the only ugly thing about her, my car did resemble a vehicle used on the set of Sanford & Son. At least she was honest. Sneaking out of her window late one night, to avoid alarming her sleeping sister, I jumped into my car and drove away. At the first application of the brakes, almost as if they popped, the pedal succumbed to the pressure and fell fully to the floorboard. I was grinding metal on metal and had the echoy, baby waking sound to prove it. It was rough getting home, and harder still getting to the auto shop, but the truly rough part was coming in the form of an $800 bill to fix the brakes. This total wouldn't have sounded so bad if I wasn't 19 and in college. It also didn't help that, a mere two years earlier, I had paid only $200 more than the repair bill, to purchase it.
Henry the 1979, brown, Celica hatchback was a friend of sorts. The dash was coming apart, pieces of cracked vinyl and crumbly foam came off at a steady pace. Instead of disposing of these little bits of Henry, my friends and I would rearrange the parts on the dash, wedging them into cracks and ultimately creating something resembling an "outsider art" project. Henry had a stick shift, from what seemed to be, a school bus. The long lever made for easy work of many a Magnum PI spin out. Once, after leaving an under age, drink laden new years party, Henry encountered an un-welcomed delivery of vomit from a 17 year old passenger. Unable to stop the car in time, the floorboard behind the passenger's seat was enveloped in a regurgitated mix of pink champagne, beer, and Wild Turkey. Once out of the car, the drunkard fell, rolled down the snow covered 20 foot embankment, and into a ditch. Remembering that humorous tumble did not make up for the fact that Henry suffered the entire winter, as the vomit had frozen solid before cleaning could commence.
Men dream about fast cars. They long for their favorite Corvette, from their favorite era. A friend has a Trans Am that resembles the Bandit's in every detail. All of this in the name of mid-life-I'm-going-to-die-soon crisis. If I ever hit my mid-life crisis, and desire a vehicular face-lift, I'll get myself another Henry. But instead of waxing it, souping up the engine, and keeping it under wraps during the winter months, you'll find me doing donuts in empty parking lots, after a heavy snow.
My knowledge of cars, and how to keep them running, is a shallow pond. I bragged proudly to the lady last year, after successfully changing a headlight and feel helpless when confronted by any other issue of a car based, mechanical nature. Even so, the news that the transmission (in my current ride: The Civic) had failed and would require a cool $1900 to fix, was quite a shock this morning. So much of a shock that I missed several spots shaving, my hair looks slept on, and I forgot a handful of essential items I intended to bring to work.
While the Civic has never let me down, in the 6 years I've owned it, I have never named it. Besides a few with the lady, I'm hard pressed to come up with a list of memories as heart warming as those I have with Henry. Perhaps time will reveal stories, from the last six years, to be as precious as those from 20 years ago.
To an extent, treating cars like people says something about me. While I'm having trouble deciding whether to fix it or go shopping, I have decided one thing: This car deserves a name.
