It was an average day in May two years ago when I first found her. She sat outside of a consignment store; ready to drive away; too cheap to resist. The catch? The man in the consignment store said I had to purchase her at the city morgue. "Yeah, the man who owned it apparently died with nothing but this Honda," he said in an accent worthy of the valley where Grapes of Wrath was conceived. My eyes narrowed. "So why the morgue?" I asked, wondering how such a simple thing as buying a car could turn so morbid. "Cause that's where the guy is."
Of course. Because that's where the guy is. Would I need to use his lifeless hand to sign some paperwork? I didn't know.
"Don't worry," he said good-naturedly, "He didn't die in the car."
I smiled with a "you've got to be kidding me" blaring throughout my head.
"I think."
Oh joy.
I call her "she" because in the last two years my car, (a 1988 brown Honda Civic hatchback) has survived intense, multi-hour commutes, the shame of being the only beat up vehicle on the campus of an upscale university overlooking Malibu, a fire, a couple accidents and a label from the insurance company declaring her "totaled". Only something female could survive all of that and still dutifully drive me on to the lot of one of the most successful Hollywood studios. Despite the fact that her front end is smashed in, and her side is crushed and the trunk refuses to open from the beating it took from behind, she stills growls her way into the parking lot--flanked by BMW's, Mercedez, and....you get the picture.
Occassionally, when I turn on the fan (the airconditioning doesn't work) I get a faint scent of something old. From time to time, I find white hairs from the head of the dead stranger whose death certificate I now own. I can't seem to get rid of the car because it reminds me of a life that expired with nothing other than Honda to show for it. It reminds me that life, though strange and sometimes messy, should never end that way. No one should die alone with nothing but an old car to pay for their burial.
I have found, however, in the last two years since she was purchased, that many good things can begin with a death. The dead man's Honda is one of those good things in my life (albeit strange and annoying at times) that have led me to believe that things are only good or bad based on how you frame them.
Here, on this blog, I will begin the stories that recount the history of my odd life with Honda, but also just what life looks like when you see it through the windshield of such a vehicle....or such eyes as mine.
Of course. Because that's where the guy is. Would I need to use his lifeless hand to sign some paperwork? I didn't know.
"Don't worry," he said good-naturedly, "He didn't die in the car."
I smiled with a "you've got to be kidding me" blaring throughout my head.
"I think."
Oh joy.
I call her "she" because in the last two years my car, (a 1988 brown Honda Civic hatchback) has survived intense, multi-hour commutes, the shame of being the only beat up vehicle on the campus of an upscale university overlooking Malibu, a fire, a couple accidents and a label from the insurance company declaring her "totaled". Only something female could survive all of that and still dutifully drive me on to the lot of one of the most successful Hollywood studios. Despite the fact that her front end is smashed in, and her side is crushed and the trunk refuses to open from the beating it took from behind, she stills growls her way into the parking lot--flanked by BMW's, Mercedez, and....you get the picture.
Occassionally, when I turn on the fan (the airconditioning doesn't work) I get a faint scent of something old. From time to time, I find white hairs from the head of the dead stranger whose death certificate I now own. I can't seem to get rid of the car because it reminds me of a life that expired with nothing other than Honda to show for it. It reminds me that life, though strange and sometimes messy, should never end that way. No one should die alone with nothing but an old car to pay for their burial.
I have found, however, in the last two years since she was purchased, that many good things can begin with a death. The dead man's Honda is one of those good things in my life (albeit strange and annoying at times) that have led me to believe that things are only good or bad based on how you frame them.
Here, on this blog, I will begin the stories that recount the history of my odd life with Honda, but also just what life looks like when you see it through the windshield of such a vehicle....or such eyes as mine.
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