A Matter of Perspective

As I continue my travails in the car-buying world, I had my only existing car appraised by a dealer to figure out its trade-in value. This car is 14 years old. I bought it nine years ago, just after my first son was born. The cruise control has never worked in the time I've owned the car, and neither has the lock for the trunk (it can only be opened by the release inside the car). The heat has been sketchy for the last couple of years, which made from some really cold commutes to Boston in 2006 and 2007 when I worked for a company based there. And for some reason that I can't quite figure out, the windows have a terrible habit of fogging up all the time. One day last summer, I came outside and saw that overnight, the clear coat on the hood of the car had failed, and now there are these two big funny-looking ovals on the hood. The car only has two hubcaps.

Oh, and did I mention that a few months after I bought the car in 1999 I had to replace the engine? Somewhat ironically, the fact that I had to replace the engine is what stopped me from getting rid of the car for so long: the engine has 30,000 fewer miles on it than the rest of the car. In fact, it has barely gone over 100,000.

I've never been a car guy in the sense that I like to tinker with them or that I have to have the latest model every three years. For me, cars are strictly utilitarian. I suppose I get that from my father, who had only one new car that I can remember. I can remember riding in a station wagon with a hole in the floor that we rode around in when I was a kid. I can remember the 1969 Firebird my father had when I first learned how to drive, to one that didn't have a gas pedal, which meant that you had to step on the metal bar that a gas pedal should have been attached to to make the car go. And the car that my father had before he bought a new on in the 90s was a 1965 baby blue Ford Falcon. My father loved that car, and I think of him every time I drive past the house near the intersection of Ryan Road, Florence Road, and Pine Street that has the Ford Falcon Parking sign at the end of its driveway.

I hated that car because when I was a senior in high school and I had to drive somewhere, the car wasn't cool enough. It had a lot of rust and an original AM/FM radio and power-nothing. It did have a bench front seat, though, which made it easy to snuggle up with my date.

That car met its demise in a car crusher when my father dropped it off at the junk yard. He hadn't even made it out of the parking lot when they unceremoniously destroyed it right in front of him. For years later, my father would tell the story of how devastating it was to see that car reduced to a cube of steel and plastic right in front of him. I never understood what the big deal was, until now.

They offered my $300 for the car. They offered me $300 for MY car, and they did it without any pangs of guilt, without any compassion. To them, the fabric hanging from the interior ceiling is a flaw and not the result of my older son growing up back there; it's a sign of triumph that he could finally reach the ceiling.

Cold-hearted bastards.

I never knew what it was like to love a car, until now, when I have to give it away.