MY STOLEN CAR

++ MY DEAREST CAR. Please come home. Our relationship together is a long history, full of first experiences and ups and downs. First, let me apologize for never giving you a name. After 175,000 miles and 11 years, I feel terrible that I’ve only ever referred to you as ‘she’ or ‘her’. You must feel slighted. My sincerest apologies for more often than not neglecting you your oil change every 3500 miles or 3 months. Also, please accept my deepest apologies for never giving you a bath or a wash in well over two years. I’d throw out an excuse but there is none which is acceptable. With the lack of an oil change and lack of a bath, it’s no wonder you always felt dirty and never sexy. Words escape me. We’ve been through so much.

Remember when we first drove ‘across country’. And by ‘across country’ we really only went halfway, stopping in Denver. There and back. Twice. We were as carefree as birds. You, a young svelt car, not even 100,000 miles and me a young buck, eager to shed the young naïve view on life. The first experience of an extended road trip is something you and I can share only with each other. It was quite a time. We played in the mountains both in the summer, hiking every weekend, and in the winter, making our weekly weekend trips up to Vail and Beavercreek and Breckenridge to snowboard. We made many more trips ‘across country’, the others being actual trips across country, to San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle. You were a trooper, a real trooper. I pushed on your pedal for 40 hours straight for at least two trips, you humming the entire time, asking me to stop only to refuel. We made a few marathon trips: one from Seattle down to San Diego in 23 hours, through the southwest desert, up to Denver and fast tracked home. Another, a whirlwind from San Francisco up through Portland and an afternoon stop in Seattle, and then east through Yellowstone and the Badlands and Devils Tower, stopping to get gas in Gary, Indiana. And another from San Francisco, stopping in Yosemite for our first time ever, on to the Grand Canyon, down through Texas and pit stopping in New Orleans, before trekking back to Ohio. On every trip I packed my stuff in your backside until you almost couldn’t move and you never complained. You never asked for any rubbers, but I tried to provide you with new tires as your old ones wore down.

We went through tough times as well. I dropped railroad ties on your back left side and then never took you to the body doctor to get cosmetically repaired. I ran you into a guardrail once. (I’m sorry.) Numerous random strangers penetrated your back right side, groping you for anything they could, usually only taking your voicebox. You’ll remember I always replaced it with another radio, but after the 4^th or 5^th time, I knew you couldn’t take it much more, so I did us both a favor and gave you back your original factory radio. It wasn’t that you were old, you were just getting seasoned and looked better au natural. You didn’t need anything to help push-up your volume. Steady and even-tempered were always your best traits.

I hear it’s still possible that you’ll come back. It’s what ‘they’ tell me. They even say it’s possible within a week or two, but if it’s longer than three weeks and you still haven’t come home, they’ll take your name off the milk carton and put another tick on the old bed post. I promise, I’ll give you a name you deserve. I’ll take you in for routine check-ups. After we frolic anywhere, I’ll lather you silly and tickle your tires with brushes so full and soap so bubbly, that the cars next to you and me will blush and look away.

I miss you. Please come home.

(PS. I’m sorry I got pissed that one time and permanently blinded you. We’ll have to do something about your windshield.)

PSS. You know the SUV which sleeps next to your bed? We’ll he looks like he’s been crying.) (But that may also be the rain. I’m still up in the air about it.)

PPSS. (I think I’m going to chalk it up as crying.) ++