An unusual relationship

"Come on, come on, come on." A phrase we've all used in that complicated tango of a relationship where it seems like you do all the talking. We say this at some point with a tense desperation, a plea from which we expect no verbal reply. We gently stroke, give a reassuring pat. We proudly show them off in the beginning, but eventually end up making excuses for their appearance near the end. We find our eyes wandering, coveting the new and exciting. Yet, we stay true as long as we humanly can, 'till death do us part. And though we may move on, we never forget our first.
Every car has a name. No, not the make and model. It's name. You don't date "Caucasian female." You date Jane or Sally or Mac-something. They have names, just as your car has a name.

I drive Luthor.

I have driven The Rocket, Doris, and Ringo. I loved Ringo but lost him after six yers of on-again-off-again love to a cement retaining wall in Las Vegas. The day I said goodbye was heart-wrenching, and yes, I cried. That car was a part of me, part of my identity. We had driven 97,000 miles together. My first kiss with my wife was in that car. Ringo had a soul. He had a voice (which sounded nothing like the Beatle he was NOT named after). We bonded, experienced chapters of my life together. He drove me to my wedding. He was a part of me. And he told me his name. Not immediately. But eventually he did.

It takes time for your new car to open up to you. It takes time to build up a rapport, a trust, a syncopation. This is the beginning of an important relationship. This is what will whisk you away on adventures and what you will rely on for the mundane. You are putting your faith forward and asking the same in return. And once that rythym of routine sets in and you both realize you are in this together and for the long haul, it will happen:

You will get into your car and before you get the chance to put the key in the ignition, you will hear it. A name. Not the one you hope for, but the one that is true. You cannot force a name upon your car. The real moniker will always shine through. The longer you deny the real name, the more tennuous the realtionship. Your car will not trust you, not cooperate, will remain distracted until you say it back. The name. You can't deny the name of your loved ones, why should this love be any different?

Luthor.

That's my car's name. He told me about a week or so after we met. Although he's Swedish, he has a thick Jamaican accent. He's big, ugly and prone to grunts and groans. Just like me, he's never quite healthy, but he tries his absolute hardest to get me where I need to go. And the longer we're together, the stronger the bond. The harder it is to curse him when he's sluggish and cranky. The more it hurts me that I can't do more to make him feel better. We understand each other. And he trusts me because I recognize who he is. I allow his voice to be heard.

Every car has a soul. We all believe that. We have all spoken to our cars at one point or another, and we've done so in the belief that we would be heard. We have all had that proud moment, not of buying, but of meeting. It's that one brief moment when you realize that you and the car are one. It's like falling in love. Maybe not romantic love, but a love that transcends explaination.
So the next time you get into your car, before you just start it up and rocket off, take a moment and ask about it's day. You'll get a whole lot more love back if you do.


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www.myspace.com/chickenlovesmillie