In my day, most of us drove around the world a couple times then got towed to the nearest junkyard. Now, these darn Toyotas can go five times that distance and still get good mileage. Mileage? Nobody cared about that in 1953 when I rolled off the assembly line. Gas was as cheap as air and America full of pent-up romance and a hopeful peace. At least, that’s how Arty Sullivan, my first owner, saw it.

           He bought me from Stowasser Ford in Santa Barbara, strode into the showroom wearing his handsome khaki uniform, decorated with metals and ribbons, and wrote out a check. My warm maroon paintjob was what snagged him. On sunny afternoons, he’d park me under the palm trees near Pershing Park and spread thick coats of Turtle Wax all over me, working it in till I glowed like a ruby. I was brand spanking new, and he was horny as an assembly line worker ogling a Rigid Tool calendar. Those were wonderful times.

           Arty worked in the produce section at Safeway on De La Vina Street. When he climbed into me after work, he smelled of broccoli and freshly-washed carrots. Later, we’d drive around town looking for companionship – not an easy quest since good girls stayed off the streets and bad ones cost more than Arty could afford. Then he met Alleta at church, a gorgeous señorita with large…ah, headlights and beautiful grillwork. It rained hard that winter. But Arty and Alleta still took me out. We’d park at the beach near Ledbetter Point, and they’d run my battery down playing the radio while destroying my rear seat springs. I learned what humans lack in power they make up for in flexibility. I envied them. By Easter, they were married with a kid on the way.

           I was parked under a sycamore in Tucker’s Grove, at the Company’s Labor Day picnic, when my owners came scrambling. Arty yanked open my passenger side door and pulled the seat forward. Alleta climbed in back and lay down, her dress wet and soiled.

           She let out a howl. “Hurry, Arty. It HURTS.”

           “Will ya watch it? You’re getting crud all over –”

           “ARTY!”

           He wisely shut up and jumped in…about drove my wheels off that day, I’ll tell you. We cut east on Foothill Road, then down Mission Street to Cottage Hospital. When I slid up to the emergency entrance, I was running hot with my oil pressure almost gone. Arty hustled the waddling Alleta inside, left me with my doors hanging open and motor idling. Some guy wearing whites finally came out and shut me off.

           They had twins, cute little girls who chewed on my armrests and got carsick over everything, even my headliner. A year and a half later they had a baby boy, and Arty got promoted to Produce Section manager. We spent his days off with Alleta and the kids cruising Santa Barbara’s new subdivisions, looking for a house bigger than their tiny Bath Street bungalow. I knew my own days were numbered but tried to hold steady, be dependable, and not break down or burn oil.

           “Ya know, we’re gonna need a new car,” Arty declared on one of our many Sunday drives.

           “Why? This one’s in great shape,” Alleta replied. “It’s hardly got forty thousand miles on it.”

           I had grown to love my mistress, even though Arty wouldn’t let her drive.

           “Yeah, but we got three kids now and need more space, ya know, to haul stuff.”

           “You don’t fool me, Arty. You just like those new Chevy station wagons.”

           “I know, I know. They sure are sweet.”

           Oh Lord, not the Chevies. How could I compete with those razor-sharp tail fins or the ’57’s wraparound windshield? What did I have? Frumpy round taillights and fender skirts that made me look like a rolling sofa. Even my paint job had darkened; I was now the color of a dinged-up eggplant. Alleta liked eggplant, but alas it wasn’t enough.

           Just after Christmas, Arty drove me onto the back lot at Sierra Chevrolet on Chapalla Street. He unclipped the registration from my steering column and left the keys dangling in the ignition. Before walking away, he snapped one last picture of me with his brownie. I felt abandoned and wondered if I’d ever again experience the full pleasure of my eight cylinders pulling me down the road toward some new adventure. I already missed Alleta and the kids. Do humans know how it feels to be used merchandise?

***

           
           I spent that winter in the company of old Chevies, Fords, a few Studebakers, and a funny-looking Henry J. My battery died and worn tires went flat before they loaded eight of us onto a tractor-trailer and headed south. We bounced along the Pacific Coast Route. Near Rincon Beach and the oil piers, I watched surfers pull their long boards from woody station wagons and dash into the waves. If only I was a station wagon I’d still be with… But that was behind me, and I tried to focus on what might come next.

           At Mel Strong’s Used Car Emporium in Ventura, I was fitted with cheapo recaps, a Pep Boys battery, then got scrubbed down and given a $42 Earl Sheib paint job; a quick coat of deep maroon covered my eggplant body nicely. But when the high school kids tried to wax me afterward, the color came off on their rags. They let me cure in the sun for a couple weeks before trying it again.

           Throughout that summer and into the fall I was taken for plenty of test drives. Women loved my automatic transmission while the men liked my V-8 power. But nobody really got excited, saw my potential, understood how reliable I could be. Then one Sunday morning, just after the churches let out, a man in a wrinkled brown suit and felt hat ambled onto the lot. He fingered my jet plane hood ornament.

           “So how much do ya want for this heap?”

           The lot manager rubbed his chin. “You got a good eye, mister. She’s a sweet little V-8 with hardly any miles and…”

           “Yeah, yeah. So how much?” An unfiltered cigarette clung to his quivering lips. I shuddered at the thought of ashes burning holes in my upholstery.

I couldn’t hear the manager’s answer because the man opened my hood and poked around in my engine bay. He checked the oil and water, squeezed my hoses, and stared under my pan at the oil stains on the pavement.

           “Would you like to take her for a spin, mister…ah…?” The manager extended a hand.

           “Name’s Fred Sanders. Just go ahead and fill out the paperwork. I need to be in Bakersfield by sundown.”

           The men disappeared into the office. When Fred returned, he hauled six leather valises from a beat-up Nash and heaved them onto my back seat. An old tweed suitcase got stowed in my trunk. We left the Nash nosed into the curb. I could sense its pain but was happy to be rolling again, to feel air flowing through my radiator, oil circulating, hydraulic fluid pushing the brakes to do their business. We headed inland and picked up Highway 99 at Castaic Junction. Halfway up the Grapevine, Fred pulled over to let me cool. But by the time we reached the flatlands of the southern San Joaquin Valley, I was running smooth. He held me at 65 the whole way into town.

           At dusk, we turned into the Sleepy Hollow Motor Court and parked outside Unit #6. Fred retrieved a bottle from under the seat and took a long pull. He sat quietly in the darkness, sipping whiskey while my hot engine crackled and ticked. His motel room was dark.

           I spent that night in the open while a thick tule fog engulfed Bakersfield. It continued like that for weeks, months, years. During the days, Fred crisscrossed the valley, stopping at any ranch that had a tractor shed bigger than an outhouse. He sold farm equipment for John Deere and spent hours jawing with big tobacco-chewing men in coveralls while farm kids drew pictures on my dusty paintjob with their stubby fingers.

           But in between clients he’d hit the bars. Fred knew saloonkeepers at ever joint in the southern San Joaquin…in places like Arvin, Shafter, Wasco, and Lost Hills. He was a mess. I was a mess; the only time I got washed was when it rained. But Fred knew how to tinker with machinery. His soft swollen hands changed my fluids every three months and kept me running. After thirteen years of being driven I still didn’t burn oil or leak anything.

           On a clear night in March we drove back from Tehachapi, high in the southern Sierras. Fred had begun drinking right after lunch and should have flopped at the Travelodge in town. But he insisted on driving home. So against my better judgment, I let my engine fire up. We flew past the turnoff to Bear Valley Springs and descended a gentle sweeping turn. Fred’s big-bottomed body went slack and slumped forward. My horn blared. With a start, he awoke and twisted the wheel. But we were in too deep. My right side grazed the guardrail, and I spun. The driver’s side door popped open. In an instant, Fred was gone.

           “If your time’s up, it’s up,” he’d muttered after one of our many near misses.

           I didn’t fully understand time…was just happy to be driven and gently attended to. It had been a simple existence. But it changed again, with me with a smashed right side and Fred stretched out on the highway, surrounded by road flares. I’d been rolling longer than most. I was ready. I hoped Fred felt the same.