And If That Ain't Enough To Make You Flip Your Lid . . .
There's one more thing -- I got the pink slip, Daddy!
Lord have mercy . . . do I ever miss my car.
Of all the losses I’ve sustained in the past few years, this one ranks in the top five. Right up there with the loss of my beloved dog and cats. I never thought it was possible to mourn for a machine with such an exquisite ache.
I can trace my fascination with cars to a specific event. My dad had a ’71 Eldorado in 1977, when I was 11 years old. It was gorgeous, a land yacht with leather interior and spoke wheels. It needed constant tinkering, but Dad was a good mechanic, opting to do most of it himself. One day, when I was hanging around the garage, he called me over, something he didn’t ordinarily do. He carefully and patiently showed me how to hotwire most GM cars, and specifically a Cadillac. I could do it today, if called upon. It was the coolest thing – dominion over a moving, metal, two-ton beast. And now, I didn’t even need a key.
For a variety of reasons, I didn’t get a driver’s license at 16, like all the other kids I knew. Eventually, weary of Chicago public transportation and desperately wanting to expand my horizons, I learned to drive in my early 30s. Again, my dad taught me, with the help of my brother. The minute I was licensed, I began spending every dime of disposable income on car rentals. Monte Carlos were my favorites – in the mid- to late-90s, they were still sleek and pretty – but then one day at the Enterprise counter, I got the chance to rent a Mustang convertible.
I have never been the same since. Holy freakin crap. I’d driven a ‘Vette and a Camaro or two, but this – this was the shit right here. I fell head over heels for the vroom. Let any guy try to compete with that. They didn’t stand a chance.
I’ve had some cool cars over the years – alas, no Mustangs – and they became my sanctuary, a contained world where I was in complete control. I drove fast, and with confidence. I blasted music and sang at the top of my lungs. Free to fantasize from the driver’s seat, I was finally on the Opry stage, or singing backup for Aretha, or duetting with Steve Earle. I took several trips from Ft. Lauderdale to Chicago, to Georgia, to Nashville, singing and rocking my way through every state. Music has always made me feel like it was “okay to be me,” and my car became the place I indulged the most. I’d pull up at any intersection, windows down, tunes cranked, sensing that everyone within earshot needed to hear a little Stevie Ray Vaughn to revive them at the end of their workday. Or Margo Price. Or AC/DC. Whatever was coming through the speakers at the time, I figured I should share it with my fellow man. Never got a ticket for it, either.
The last car I had was a 2015 Chevy Impala. Big, comfy shocks for my tired, arthritic back. She was buxom and curvy, so I named her Marilyn, after Monroe. Didn’t corner worth a damn, got lousy mileage in the city, but she had ten Bose speakers and respectable pickup. She was lovely.
In 2021 I began to have trouble with my eyes – intermittent binocular double vision. Eventually, it didn’t go away, and I’ve had it since. Doctors have confirmed that it’s too severe to be corrected with lenses; correction would have to be attempted surgically. And if it’s due, as I suspect, to as-yet undiagnosed ocular myasthenia gravis, there are a variety of treatments available, none of them appealing or sure to affect a cure.
It was suggested that I drive with a patch over my left eye to correct the double vision. It worked – I could see the cars on the road and my spatial perception returned – but the loss of peripheral vision on the left side was just too great a risk. Years ago, I was more than willing to exceed any highway speed limit in my new Grand Am, whose dash lights were a brilliant red-orange, so I could pretend I was in the goddam Batmobile, but I knew damn well that this arrangement just wasn’t worth it. I sold my beautiful Impala to a CarMax in Glencoe. I haven’t driven since.
For many, driving, especially in a city like Chicago, is considered an unpleasant but necessary chore, right up there with taking the trash out. The endless gridlock, trying to find parking, city stickers, county stickers, gas prices, insurance, maintenance – it can be an endless financial drain, a malevolent hunk of metal you just keep throwing money at. But I cannot begin to tell you how much I miss it – my sanctuary, my safe space, my freedom. My vroom, man – I NEED MY VROOM!!!
It sounds petulant and childish to talk this way about anything, let alone an automobile. But that love is true and deep and real. Listen to the old rock n roll songs, the early rockabilly, Eddie Cochran, Chuck Berry, Dion – what are their songs written about? It’s girls and cars all the way, baby, sometimes using the one to get the other. The girls and cars evoke the same quick heartbeat, sly smile and shining eyes, and the songwriters long for and lust after both in equal measure.
You give up a lot when you give up your car. I had no idea I would feel this intensely, that the loss would reach this deep. If you can, next time you’re cursing the gridlock, crank a tune for me, wouldja? Sing along, sing loudly and offkey, nobody cares. I’ll know you’re there, I’ll hear ya. I’ll be jealous as hell, but so with you in spirit.
If I can ever drive again, I will resurrect my dream of owning a V8 Mustang.
Best. Vroom. Ever.
© 2024 Jil Olsen