The Hard Road

If there is an afterlife, the last thing I'd like to come back as is a car of mine. What have these vehicles done to deserve such bad treatment? Nothing. They've transported me admirably from one phase of my life to another, while the trappings of each era accumulated in the trunk.

I bought my first auto in 1976, a used '73 Mustang. It met its demise when Chicago's wheels were spinning in the blizzard of 1979. I was carrying a load of stage lights for a show I was directing called "Suburbs of Heaven." The streets were bedlam on ice. On the way to the theatre, I had one of the ubiquitous collisions that decorated every corner those days.

"Suburbs of Heaven" was a smash, and so was my car. When I traded it in for parts, the dealer looked on with mild interest as I emptied the trunk.

He was clearly unimpressed by a stack of yellowed newspaper ads, picturing me smiling provocatively at staplers. (I once modeled for an office supply chain.) But when I pulled out a black, strapless bustier and World War II army boots, his eyes took on a voyeur's glee. "It was all very innocent," I explained. "I had appeared in the musical "Cabaret."

Next, from under a pile of fishnet stockings, I produced a long leather whip. Suddenly disapproval clung like pantyhose to the salesman's face The whip was a prop too, I assured him, from a dance number in "Suburbs of Heaven." I recounted going to a place called the "Pleasure Chest" on North Broadway to ask if they would lend us a whip in exchange for credit in the program. The pierced, studded clerk grudgingly agreed. But only after I threatened not to beat him up .

My next car was a used '76 Mercury Capri. I bought it from my boyfriend Stanley Garfield the day before he dumped me. Stanley scored a double play with that one, unloading me and his car all at once.

I was heartbroken and the car felt abandoned too. I spent a very lonely year with the Capri culminating in a kid rear ending me on Clark Street when I was stopped at a light. The punk slid out of his jalopy, his Mohawk cut bristling, and told the cop he had no driver's license. He had no insurance either. I filled out a meaningless police report. He got a ticket and a court date, I got burned.

I traded the sad Capri in for a tough Sentra. The sad Capri had an even sadder trunk, drooping with self help books like "Women who Love Too Much" and "Women are From Venus, Men are From Mars." The Sentra was my car when I met my future husband in 1992. I told Dave right away that my entire dowry was in the trunk - leftover pots and pans from my mother's habit of changing the color of her kitchen .

" Avocado is so seventies, darling," she said as she handed me a shopping bag full of avocado dish towels, spice rack, oven mitt, can opener, etc. "Harvest gold positively screams eighties"

I wanted him to have no illusions.

But the worst affront of all came on the coldest day of 1997. Dave and I were now married. The Sentra was parked in front of our new house in the city. I had just flicked a Zippo to thaw its lock and was seated on frozen stiff plastic. Suddenly, a loud whack pushed me in the Sentra to the middle of the street.

I cracked open the door in time to see a maroon car bouncing off every car on the street. I screamed "stop," but it was no use. The maroon car raced away, tires screeching like a frostbitten animal. I called AAA to tow the twisted metal that was once my car. Goodbye little Sentra, I hope you're happy in the landfill.

I then purchased a used '95 navy blue Saab convertible. For the first time in my life, I had a truly beautiful car.

The Saab was perfect. The previous owners had cared for it like a child. They kept a log in a soft leather book, listing each time it had been serviced. The oil changes were like visits to the pediatrician. I bought the Saab in Highland Park, what do you expect?

It has been a city car for four years now and is no longer pristine. It knows it is grander than the convulsive heaps next to it on Chicago's mean, potholed streets . It longs for the smooth surfaces of the North Shore, where cars don't belch on every corner and primer gray is rarely seen. And where no one would plow into it. So I thought.

One cold rainy day, when I was en route to my dentist in Wilmette, a minister in an SUV hit my beautiful Saab. My first words after squeezing out my scrunched door were

"Whose fault is it?"

"Yours," ordained the minister.

I called my husband and told him it was my fault.

"There's no way it could have been your fault," Dave said on arrival.

"He hit you! Your car door looks like the empty dug-out at Wrigley Field."

The guilt I felt was overwhelming, my beautiful Saab. Nobody got a ticket. Our insurance companies battled it out. At least clergymen in Wilmette have insurance.

After serious body work, the Saab got its cover girl looks back. But not for long. Soon the curse of being my car took its toll again. Suddenly, the side mirror paid homage to a disco ball. Something to do with backing out of my garage. Don't ask. At one time I thought my car troubles were nothing more than bad Karma, like when the Saab got hit in the Whole Foods lot while I was inside shopping. This is true in a certain respect. Most of my accidents occur when my car is motionless. But I cannot explain the loose metal trim that dangled from it like a question mark.

My record proves I do not cause accidents. People bump into me. I've always resorted to self-blame for anything that happens to my cars. Nevertheless, I'm still trying to come to grips with the following revelation: when someone hits me, it's not my fault!

Six months ago, it was time for my husband to trade in his well worn Mazda. I told him to take the Saab because he would take better care of it. We bought a new Volkswagen Beetle for me. Dave thought it would be easier for me to drive. But it probably won't happen in this life. I have yet to drive it. It sits so shiny and proud, a dome shaped dream. I couldn't bear to see it humiliated.

And anyway, I'd have to clean out the Saab's trunk. These days there are no whips or no fishnet hose. Just balls for our dog, a snow scrapper and a few broken umbrellas. The boring trappings of a contented 50 year old woman. Both the Saab and I are in fine running order. We both have a few nicks, but overall, but I like to think we look pretty good for our age. Our faces are road maps of our life experience. But the Saab isn't content to be "interesting looking. No matter how much body work she has, it's never enough. It wants to be perfect again. Hell, I'd like some body resurfacing too. But unlike the Saab, my insurance won't pay for it.