Never Say Goodbye

I have a serious problem with goodbyes, especially with inanimate objects. I still have every toy and action figure I've ever owned. Granted, most deteriorate in a shed in our backyard or in various shelves and recesses of our basement, but they're all still here somewhere. In the back of my closet is a cardboard box with a house design painted on it, which young single-digit MCF dubbed his “people-box”. In it are my oldest and most treasured toys, including a Smokey The Bear figurine I used to refer to as “Super Bear”(inspired by ‘80s Sugar Bear commercials). In my imagination, he could jump great distances and he packed a mighty punch. His arms and legs were the only moving parts, four rotating joints, and the arms had worn to the point that I could spin them and pretend he was punching very fast. Yes, I'm this much of a loser that I still remember the back stories of all my figures, even though I haven't played with any of these toys in over ten years. I mean 15. Twenty? The point is, parting with stuff? Not a strong suit.

I awoke Saturday morning with the realization that, when I did indeed purchase a new(er) car, I'd be bidding farewell to my old one. This made me a little sad. Keeping two cars wasn't an option though, nor do I need a second 19-year-old vehicle rotting in the driveway. My dad's been pressuring me a lot lately about my rusting brake lines, which he estimates may fail either “tomorrow or a year from now”. When a comedian lost his brakes and took a tumble this week, it gave my dad new ammunition, and I'm losing track of how often I've heard the phrase, “Do you want to end up like Jerry Seinfeld?” In a different context, that question would have an entirely different answer.

I might save everything, but my organizational skills are lacking. Anything related to my car has gone into a manilla envelope, with the exception of receipts from the gas station. Those sit on the console between the driver and passenger seats. On Saturday, I went through not only the manilla envelope, but my glove compartment and console as well. I emptied the car of all my possessions, from window scrapers to flashlights to my favorite sunglasses. I found a menu from a Chinese restaurant near my old job, something that was left under my windshield wiper and found its way under one of my seats. That faded, torn bit of paper got tossed without a second thought. I found gas receipts dating back to 2002, and asked my mom how long I should save such receipts. “7 years” was her response, so those went into their own envelope. In my glove compartment, besides every inspection receipt, insurance card, and registration form I'd ever had, I found a receipt for Mint Milanos from a supermarket in Massachusetts.

I wasn't making much money at my first job, nor was I any more of an expert on women than I am now. One thing popular culture had taught me was never to show up for a date empty handed. I wasn't much of a jewelry or flowers guy, but when I learned what my girlfriend's favorite cookie was, I made sure to always bring a package with me when I went to see her. It was a miracle she was so thin, but looking back now I'm wondering if she was giving them to her mother. In any case, after she moved to Massachusetts, my dad's old car wasn't up for the distance so I had to get my own. That was the original reason I bought “Bluestreak”. I needed a less-old vehicle with good gas mileage to make the four hour trip to see my girl every other week. That receipt may have been from the last time I bought her cookies.

“That's why you don't want to get rid of that car,” observed my mother, “It's your old make-out car, like that episode of Everybody Loves Raymond where he doesn't want to get rid of the car for the same reason.” My ex actually liked my first car better with one long front seat that she referred to as our “couch away from her couch”. Bucket seats weren't as good for smooching. And the more I thought about it, I really didn't have any sentimental value for the car where that relationship was concerned.

I hadn't dwelled on that relationship much since I found out she'd gotten married. I haven't had any contact with her for even longer. But when my mom suggested that might be why I'd be attached to the car, I realized the opposite was true. One weekend, while visiting her family in New York, I took my sunshine for a drive to the beach. After a long romantic walk we returned to my vehicle. After letting her in on the passenger side, I paused while walking around the back of the car to pop in a Tic Tac. I was young and arrogant and had gone from doing everything in my power to hold on to this great girl to believing it would never end. I started taking things for granted. When I got in that car, and leaned over to kiss her, I got hit with the dreaded “we need to talk” speech instead.

Why am I attached to this car? This is the car the love of my life dumped me in. This is a car that has no air conditioning, in which I've had panic attacks. I've been rear-ended not once but twice. I went through a four month period in which the car wouldn't start after it got too hot, and was stranded on several occasions before my dad and I finally diagnosed and corrected the problem. Any day now, I might step on the brakes and find that nothing happens. I shouldn't feel bad about saying goodbye; I should be setting it on fire and sending it off a dock.

And yet, for all the bad things that have happened in and to this vehicle, it's still my car. I loved my dad's car, originally that of my music teacher, which served me well through college and my first job. That ‘81 maroon Monte Carlo was a tank, and if the floor hadn't rusted through I might still be driving it. But that little blue ‘89 Mazda 626 was the first vehicle I bought with my own money, earned at my first job. It's made it through blizzards in Massachusetts and for seven years got me to work and to various places around work. That car has led me to quite a few adventures.

I eventually did find the title to the car and other paperwork I might need should I trade it in. The Milano receipt went in the old pencil case where I keep the ticket stubs from every movie I've ever seen. I guess I'll always be sentimental. As for my car, I took some time to photograph it inside and out. I might not be saying goodbye today, or even tomorrow, but I will be soon. I kind of understand now how hard it was when my mom bid farewell to our totaled blue ‘86 Monte Carlo. There are things in life we forget or want to forget, but there will always be goodbyes we never want to say. And with our photos and our memories, we don't always have to.