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I always kept two quarts of oil in the trunk. The engine had a slow oil leak, a $950 repair or 1 quart of 5W/30 a month. The trunk had its own leak on the back right side, exaggerated by living in Seattle for 4 years. The rear windows gave up 5 years ago. The front two windows still went down begrudgingly, with a slow whine of fine fine but we’re going to take our time. The driver-side window was off its track, so it went out and up, surpassing the top of the door. This created a shrill whistle when driving at high speeds. In the beginning the whistle pushed me into a state of insanity, but eventually I learned to endure it. The pitch of the whistle would fluctuate depending on the speed at which I traveled. When I could lock into a consistent pace I would search for music in the same key as the whistle, thus making the window sing in harmony, like that woman next to you in church who knows how to sing harmonies, but only well enough to where she stays on one or two notes around the major third. Her name was Barb. Way to hit that C#, Barb!
The cassette deck did as cassette decks are prone to do: die. The radio worked. The volume knob went down smoothly, but in order for me to increase the volume I had to wiggle it around, intermittently forceful and gentle, trying to find that sweet spot where it would catch. The check engine light checked nothing other than my nerves. For awhile I kept a small piece of electrical tape over it to keep it from staring at me. On longer drives I had conversations with the check engine light, welcoming it back and saying goodbye when it would go off. The speedometer would periodically jump 15-20 mph. I once had an XM radio receiver for a few years, probably my car’s nicest accessory, but that ended when I realized that I was paying monthly to listen to Nick Lachey over and over, no matter the station.
It smelled like dog, but that was fine with me. When I got Jack I knew that I had to choose to either work endlessly to keep it from smelling or I could let Jack be Jack, drool from his mouth on the seats like a Jackson Pollock painting and dirt between his paws, and then simply sweep it out every month or so. That choice was obvious. A few months ago I had Jack in the back and he was whining more than normal. It was early in the morning and I was annoyed. Stop being a dog! Shut up! Shut up! Then he had what can only be called an explosive shit fest. A festival of dog shit. How could I be mad at him? He was yelling at me to let him out so he could do what he needed to do, but I was too stubborn and contemptuous. Maybe I deserved it. God knows he didn’t.
At my last recollection, there were 267,000+ miles logged on that car, almost all of them mine. I drove back and forth to college from Indiana to Virginia, took trips up and down the east coast, and moved from Indiana to Seattle by way of Kentucky, Tennessee, Arkansas, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona. California, Oregon and Washington. I moved from Seattle to Chicago through the northern half of the country. That car conquered the mountains and forrest roads of the Cascades on my regular camping trips, traversing dirt roads that my shocks were vehemently against. Ascending the Cascades was a trudge, with uphill speeds topping out at 45 mph as semi-trucks flew by me with their hazard lights flashing, warning others of their slow speeds. My dad, my grandfather, and my buddy Phil received dozens of calls with car questions. Hey Dad. What does it mean when all of my dashboard lights are flashing at once?
It was a car of the resurrection. The car had been in our family for years, having bought it from a family friend, Bob, who was my biology teacher in high school. Bob had bought it from a guy in the early 90’s who had too many cars and needed to get rid of either the Honda or a Subaru. “It was the best car I ever owned,” Bob told me when I called him yesterday afternoon to give him the news. My step-mom had the car for a few years, then it was given to me 8 years ago when I was in college. I named him Fezzik after André René Roussimoff’s character in The Princess Bride. Like Andre the Giant, my car was strong and tender. Once it was so dead that I was calling junk yards around Seattle to see if I could get a few hundred dollars for the parts, but my friend Nathan told me about his uncle Herb, a retired mechanic who might be able to help. Herb did $1,000 in repairs and charged me $250. New gaskets, new hoses, a patched tire, new plugs, repaired a substantial leak, and and so on. “Do you think I can drive it from Seattle to Chicago?” I asked him. “Well, sure, I mean, you’ll definitely make it out of the Seattle limits I suppose.” “Great. Thanks Herb.” (I only broke down once from Seattle to Chicago in Butte, MT when a radiator hose blew out. Thanks again, Herb.)
On December 28, 2011, I came home from work at 2 p.m. and parked my car on the street outside my apartment. Five hours later, after a nice nap and a meal, I went outside to get Jack’s kennel out of my trunk. My car was gone. I walked around my block a few times and checked online to see if it was towed by the city of Chicago, but I couldn’t locate it. On the 29th I went to the police station to report my car stolen.
“Yeah. That happens here.”
Thieves have no regard for story, and I am a nostalgic man. The car was worth so little and so much. I spent thousands of hours behind that steering wheel. It was a car that took me from endings and to beginnings, over and over again. In the past few days I’ve gone through waves of anger and sadness. Damn the person who took my car, and damn the people who have taken from me in the past. Forgive the person who took my car, and forgive the people who have taken from me in the past. Kirby has cried with me as I’ve reflected and experienced what has felt so violent and violating.
Having something or someone taken from you always has its own Friday, Saturday, Sunday rhythm. When I realized my car was stolen I had moments of denial and a ridiculously quick acceptance. These things happen and its ok. It’s just a car. I have people. I’ll be ok. I can still get to where I need to go. It’s just a car. I have family and friends. It’s just a car. I don’t need a car. I called Kirby and told her and I was calm. Then, after a few days, I started to get angry. I took it out on Jack. I went for a few long runs trying to get out the anger, but I would end up right where I had started at my apartment, but angrier. I’m tired of people taking things from me. In the past few years I’ve had my camera stolen, my computer stolen, and now my car stolen. In Seattle someone put a gun to my head, took my jacket, phone, and wallet, and then hit me in the back of the head with the pistol. I’ve had people leave me that I loved, and, though it was much more significant than any item taken from me, I lost my mother when I was 12. I don’t know if I believe in luck, but if there is luck, I haven’t seen much of it.
Rarely do I respond with self-pity, even with the timeline of violence in my life. Rather, I deny grief and go directly to resurrection. It’ll be ok is a sentence I despise, because most often it is an avoident uttering. I told Kirby It’ll be ok within minutes of seeing that my car was not where I left it. So, I write this in a Friday. It’s surreal and I’m feeling abandoned and I’m feeling angry, and all of that is what it is.
Still, amidst the anger, I have gratitude for that 1990 Honda Accord. I hope that the police find it, even if it’s not all of it. I want to say goodbye and take home a few of the parts. If I may impart to you one thing, it is this: be mindful of the objects in your life that hold your stories. Take care of them and take lots of pictures.
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A Fear: I do not believe in any one thing strongly enough that I will dedicate my life to it, and therefore I will simply get by for the rest of my time here.
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Jonathan visits Chicago
This is Jonathan standing near Lake Michigan.
This is Jonathan at Navy Pier.
This is Jonathan waiting for the brown line.
This is Jonathan in the alley behind my apartment.
This is Jonathan before he eats a pizza.
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a short film by Kirby O’Connell
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I enjoy photographing the weddings of my friends because there is immediate trust, and it’s always an honor to share such an important day and have intimate moments with those I love most.
Many congrats to you, Aubrey and Selena. I miss you both.
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