How I Met Your Driver

After one of the sessions had ended, I grabbed my books and began that old familiar walk towards the parking lot. This time a girl joined me.

“Look! Our cars are almost the same,” she exclaimed upon arriving to a semi–vacant lot.

Sure enough they were both Fords, similar in size, color and year. Mine was a '91 Escort.

“Yeah, but is yours a Tempo?” I challenged.

“No way man. It's an Escort!”

Now, it would be an exaggeration to say that I instantly fell head over heals in love with her. But at that moment I knew one thing for sure; I would never meet another girl like this again. If I got to know her my life would forever change for the better. What I still don't know is why that statement meant so much? Maybe it was the pride she took in defending her vehicle. Perhaps it was the not–so–subtle implication that Tempos were lame and Escorts were 10Xs cooler. Either way I was smitten.

“Haha, okay then you're right. They really are almost the same.”

By the time Summer rolled around we were the best of friends and drove her car everywhere. As we crested a small bridge that spanned the Skagit River, I, riding shotgun, confessed something to her.

“I think I'd be pretty jealous if you had a boyfriend.”

Don't–crash–the–car–don't–crash–the–car, was all she could think as her mind raced as fast as her heart.

“I think I'd be pretty jealous if you had a girlfriend.”

Two more summers and we were married. Both cars under one insurance policy. Life was great! And then we hit a speed bump. No literally, we drove over a speed bump and something in her car snapped. It started to make a loud screeching sound. The poor car was screaming! It was late and we only had a little ways to go. So, my newly acquired wife soothingly patted the dashboard as we continued through the parking lot, repeatedly apologizing to the car and any neighbors stirred awake by our awfully loud, late night arrival home.

A few weeks later, I found myself imagining how ashamed my father would be to see me sitting here staring blankly into the black abyss of the braking mechanism.

“Please Lord, don't let me be one of those husbands that can't fix anything,” I pleaded with my other Father.

Just as I was about to deem myself unfit for husbandry, I saw it – a paperclip, a broken paperclip to be exact. Since I was pretty sure office supplies and auto parts were never interchangeable, I went on to restore our vehicle to its proper working condition.

“I fixed it? I fixed it! Holy crap, I fixed it!”

I diluted my excitement and when my wife returned home, I nonchalantly mentioned that I had fixed the car. She wrapped her arms around me and said she was so happy to have married such a handyman. Had we been on a movie set you would have seen the car and me exchange a wink. Ironically, this would not be the only speed bump to debilitate our vehicle.

Not long after my triumph over the brakes, my wife tried to open the passenger side door and heard yet another snap. We soon found that she was unable to exit, for the inside handle no longer engaged the door latch. Luckily, the outside handle still worked. As you can imagine, I quickly got into the habit of opening the door to let her out. I'd like to think that I would have started doing this for her no matter what – but necessity is the mother of invention… or in this case, her younger child, motivation. And would you believe it? This small inconvenience began to restore hope to all of humanity.

“I think it's just great to see a husband continue to woo his wife and treat her with such respect,” one complete stranger said as she approached us in the grocery store parking lot.

My wife, God bless her, didn't blow my cover and played along. “He's a reeeeal keeper!”

Another women stopped mid–conversation with her daughter outside of Value Village. “What's the matter mom? Can't finnd your keys?”

“No, I um, just uh, can't believe there are still gentlemen left,” she loudly whispered back.

It went on like this for years. But if you thought opening the door for your wife would turn heads, you ain't seen nothing until your wife opens the door for you! I got so many dirty looks. With the elderly it was always the same. They'd do the what–has–this–world–come–to eyebrow thing. I almost thought about keeping a pair of crutches in the car but figured I would be cursed with whatever disability I faked. It didn't take long for my wife to master the inconspicuous drive–by unlatching.

With gas prices at an all time high and my paycheck at an all time low we were down to one vehicle. The ‘91 had gone to live with my parents and my wife's car, affectionately named “Ninety–Three”, became our primary mode of transportation. With no money, no hub caps, only one (on a good day 2) working speakers, going–to–break–any–minute–now electric windows, faulty dash lights, worn out struts, bald tires, and let's not forget about the door latch, all this and more; Ninety–Three had to endure a real beating. Inexplicably, the engine would turn over every time we turned the key. I kept telling my wife that one day the car wasn't going to start and then we'd really have a problem. She would faithfully disagree and back up her arguments with a simple statement, “I know this car.” And she really did. It had been her parents' car, her first car, and now our only car.

• • •

“Yeaaaah, I'm not so sure about this.” The three SUVs in the ditch had shaken my confidence.

“Trust me. It does good in the snow. I know this car.” However, the gigantic ice covered hill looked a formidable foe. “I'll pray while you drive.” Her tone now gave way to the tiniest shred of doubt. “Please Jesus, please, please get us home safely.” Half way up we started fishtailing. “Uh–ooooh… PleaseLord PleaseLord PleaseLord PleaseLord,” became her mantra.

It felt like we were in an uphill hockey match between angels and demons. Passed from one invisible player to the next. Left to right but always forward, Ninety–Three kept chugging towards the goal! Helpless to the forces of good vs evil, we cheered her onward.

“C'moooon Ford, C'moooon Ford!” (we probably should've thrown in a C'mooon Lord too, but we were all on the same team).

It's all fun and games until someone winds up in a ditch, and we were headed for such a ditch. But in the last minute, Mighty Ducks' style, good triumphed over evil and our car miraculously skated to the top of the hill. My wife, unable to contain her exitement, let out a joyful shout and clapped her hands. We slid right into our driveway and vowed never to attempt that hill in the snow again. A vow we sheepishly broke every winter following. Ninety–Three never let us crash though and started up every morning. My wife was right; I was a believer.

The seasons kept changing and our lives began to level out a bit. Money wasn't as tight as it once was and even though the car was getting older, we would replace parts as needed. Another speed bump took out our water pump. But a water pump was still cheaper than a new car. Our head gasket blew. But replacing a head gasket was still barely cheaper than a new car. People would ask why we didn't just buy something else, something newer. My wife would usually reply with a fiscally responsible reason. In truth, it was because that car had invested in our lives and we couldn't just discard it.

One afternoon, on no particular day, our car quietly broke down for good. With nothing left to teach us, Ninety–Three was able to die in peace. We had come so far and learned so much. It's amazing how an inanimate object can posses such a personality. This car had been the wings of freedom to a naive 18 year old girl. It safely transported her over thousands of miles into a whole new life and was her constant companion years before I ever met her. It was one thing we shared in common, which led to sharing everything, including a life together. It was like a safety bubble that gave us confidence we didn't know we had. Its reliability increased our faith. Even its malfunctioning parts gave way to good habits. We sang loudly, laughed a ton, cried a lot, and boy did we ever argue in that car.

My wife's eyes welled up as the memories came flooding back. Her voice quivered a little, “I might cry. I know it's silly but this car has been with me for so long.”

“Kelley, it's not silly. This is just the end of one chapter you began. We get to start a brand new one, together,” I comforted her.

My Dad drove up to meet us in my old car, Ninety–One. They no longer needed it and we surely did. Ironically, he pulled in just as the tow truck pulled out. He tossed me the keys.

“How's it running?” I asked as I watched Kelley watch the tow truck disappear with Ninety–Three. I found it hard to believe that we would ever learn as much from another car again.

“Like a champ! Drove the whole way without a problem,” he said. “Just one thing, the driver's side door latch is starting to go…”