Ode to the Big Red Machine

Today, while I was driving downtown, I saw my first car - a red 1996 Oldsmobile Achiva SE. I knew it was mine, the one I sold for the low, low price of $500 because of the "Williams, Dover, NH" dealership tag on the rear bumper. I was surprised at the wave of emotions and memories that came over me. I still cannot believe I sold that car in the first place. At the time, it was part of the Alamo's yard, like the bent over polka dotted bottoms that grace gardens. It sat beside the house in a state of perpetual unmotion, the grass rotted underneath it while the grass beside grew like weeds. I was too poor to afford car insurance and registration fees, which included fines from car insurance lapses. Thus, she was stuck rocking away, remembering the old times.

Except nobody brought out a pitcher of sweet tea or lemonade. Chrissty's Honda became our primary transportation. Hopefully it didn't laugh as it waited for our return, engine still warm. The day eventually came when we had to say sianara to the Alamo and, needing the money, I priced the car to sell quickly. It did. I defended my selling of the Big Red Machine by saying that I couldn't afford her. She had sat for so long and was a mess. She was a dog that I drove out to the country and abandoned by a farm. She had aged before her time, maybe she secretly shot whiskey at night while I slept. Maybe she grew complacent, never having to struggle and eventually start on a knuckle aching, below zero January morning since my move south.

The passenger window was arthritic, moving in spurts never to roll up fully. The CD player developed Alzheimer's and no longer recognized CD's. Her A/C couldn't compete with Valdosta's simmering summer heat and puttered out. The back seat was a refuge of yellowed newspapers from my editor days. The driver's side floorboard became the home of a cat and her litter of kittens. A-Mac ran inside one day, "Guys you'll never believe this." We left the door open so they could get out freely because we were afraid to move them. Subsequently, the battery died and had to be replaced. The cat and kittens eventually moved out to the woods never to be seen again.

I spent a few hours cleaning Big Red before I stuck on the black and orange "FOR SALE" sign. Cleaning her up didn't take nearly as long as I thought it would. She went from sleeping in an alley to nailing job interviews. She looked like her former self, the day I test drove her with my dad, us laughing as we turned around in a dirt lot and screamed out kicking up dust. The way she looked in her first photograph, posed behind the smiling dealer and the smiling me. Him happy with a sale and me happy at my new freedom. She was the first and only car I test drove that day.

The SE stood for sports edition, the insurance company charged more because of these two letters and because of the red paint. She has two doors and a spoiler, but she certainly was not a sports car despite what GM claimed. My brother laughed at me when I asked his advice on customizing it. He said I would be a laughing stock if I put rims and a giant spoiler on an Oldsmobile. He drove a hunter green Mustang and did not have that problem. I relented. At least my car had a black interior and a switch to engage into all-wheel drive - a nice edition for icy, winter roads.

She took me to and from soccer practice and my high school, weekend afternoon until 2 a.m. job as a hotel porter. She took my friends and me to the mall and movies. My dad's Silverado pulled her the 1,271 miles to Valdosta and sent my parents back, my mom weeping, minus me and Big Red. I started at VSU a few days later. Back and forth. Back and forth. School. Work. Girlfriend. Friends. All over. To and Fro. A summer trip 1,271 miles back to New Hampshire. Then 1,271 miles back to Valdosta.

Eventually, I moved closer to VSU and my left foot was able to pound the pavement instead of the gas pedal. My roommates' cars had four doors so she was rarely driven when it was time to pile to Wal-Mart or the bars. She grew older. I called less and less. I rarely visited. When I did it was for meaningless two minute trips to What-a-Burger or Taco Bell. Her last great hurrah was a sweat soaked ride with A-Mac to Tampa for our first Tropicana Field Red Sox/Rays series. It was the first time I looked forward to seeing a ballgame indoors in the refuge of air conditioning. We cursed her the whole way. We were just thankful that she made the trip, although she should have left us on the side of the road. Then she sat....and sat....and sat.

Seeing her today, I wish I hadn't sold her. My mind turned into a crystal ball briefly allowing me to see this future sentiment the second after I finished cleaning her. I saw this feeling again when I allowed her new owner to drive her around the block, and again when I told the buyer I would take her off the market for a day so he could get the $500 together.

I miss the Big Red Machine. She had just over 150,000 miles and would have run for many more years. I could have gotten the money for fines and a tag together. If not, I could have towed her to the new apartment until I did. We love our new younger Mazda. Mindy's modern four cylinder would crush Big Red's older six and saves us money at the pump. But we could do without the monthly payment. Big Red was all mine but not anymore.

I'm glad to see she's still running. I'm glad to see that she is being used. That she is a car again and not a lawn ornament, a piece of modern art depicting time's cruelness. I should have taken better care of you. You deserved better. You were my car and now you're an old photograph laying in an old album. Every now and then I'll take it out or I'll see you around town and remember. You will always be my first car.