The Sunbird

This is a story of a woman and a car. Once upon a time, the woman was young and the car was new. She was on the verge of graduating from college, and the car, though not fancy, seemed cute and comfortable and reliable enough to take her out into the world. If nothing else, it was a definite upgrade from the Chevy Nova she'd been driving for six years. As it turned out, she and the car would be together for a long, long time, though the car, had it been capable, may have wished for a different fate.

In the beginning, of course, she took special care of it, and invested wisely in ArmorAll and oil changes. It was a real disappointment, then, when Kenny, her fellow student teacher, busted one of the air vents on a ride to lunch when the car was mere days old. And it was sadder still when the woman accidentally drove down a freshly oiled street when the odometer was still in the triple digits. The paint was never was the same.

Nevertheless, the car was dependable, and the woman and her friends took it to Memphis and back, and then to Memphis and back again. The woman graduated and drove the car through all those endless Illinois cornfields looking for a job. Finally, at interview number 13, she halfway succeeded (the work was part-time), and she moved her car out into the country, racking up the miles to visit civilization, and her friends (both the close by and out of state), and the homebound students she took on for extra cash. Soon enough, she got married and moved to another town, and she and the car continued their commuting life, first across the Illinois prairie and then around the St. Louis highways.

Three years into their relationship, the woman towed the car to Green Bay behind a moving truck, paying extra for an undeground parking space so as to protect the car from the Wisconsin elements and herself from the drudgery of cleaning them off. A year later, she and a puking, shedding, nervous wreck of a cat drove the car to Iowa, where she would be happy but the cat and the car would be less so. Getting the car moving in the cold Iowa mornings developed into an elaborate ritual involving cans of starter fluid and depressing the gas pedal in a way no one but the woman could master. So maybe that's why, when she cracked the rear bumper on an on-coming car (yes, that does take skill. or tragic inattention when one backs out of the driveway) and scraped yellow paint from a concrete pylon at the bank onto the front fender fixing those cosmetic flaws was a low priority. Surely the car was on its way out. Alas, financial priorities change, especially when news of a new baby is received, and since the car was basically trustworthy (though touchy) and thorougly paid for, it stayed, both long enough to trade its Wisconsin plate for not one but two Iowa models and to deliver that baby home.

The same year the baby arrived, the woman and her family moved to Indianapolis, and the car came too. The car became well acquainted with the "boys down at Firestone," but they drove it as long as they could--right up until it started randomly losing power on the freeway as the woman delivered her work to the office each morning. Adventure is grand, just not on I-465. Now, at that point, believe it or not, that car was the only one the woman and her family had: the husband's car had been totaled back when they lived in Iowa, and, Iowa City being manageable on one car, they'd kept the cash and tried life with a single vehicle. That was less workable (read: a huge pain in the ass) in a larger city, so once a new car was acquired, the woman was tempted to keep the Sunbird to see if it could be resurrected, so she did. Their itinerant life being what it was, it was now time to move again, so they towed the car back to Illinois and dropped it at a trusted mechanic's. And hark! there was a miracle. While the Indiana mechanics had planned to gouge $450 to "maybe" fix it, the woman's new best friend in the whole world found a loose connection, charged $40 for his time, and restored the woman's faith in humanity and her place as a member of a two-car family. Hallelujah, indeed.

The woman abused the good nature of that car for two more years and thousands more miles, but even she agreed it was time to give it up at the end of mile 168,000. But what to do? It certainly had little value according to Kelly or any other expert. And she really didn't want to sell it to someone who'd know where to find her, its maintenance--except for the oil changes, her father having drilled that right into her head--being as spotty as it was. The solution? Donate it! Surely the non-profit would just sell it for whatever parts remained anyway, and she could walk away with a clean conscience. Which she did.

The non-profit had other plans, though, and so did the car: not long after she gave it away, the woman saw it on the road. There was no mistake: it was always easily identifiable, given the bumper, the fender, the Bluenote in the back window and the local tax stickers in the front. Now, however, it was even more identifiable. The new license plate? SEXY 64. The woman was chagrined, and momentarily wanted to rescue her car from whomever had that kind of vanity, but at least the car was still going. We should all hope to endure so much and last so long, she thought. The woman's entire family knew the story of SEXY 64 and would occasionally see it around town, or even further afield than they'd think safe to drive it. Heads shaking with disbelief, they'd update each other on what had rusted or faded or fallen off the car that would not die. Eventually, the car was spotted with a new license plate, and though the woman was relieved that the old car's honor was restored, she figured that this sighting might well be the last.

Which it was, until the phone rang today, seven years after the car was given away, sixteen years after it was new.

"Guess what I saw!" said the woman's husband. "The Sunbird!"