I guess you could call me a “commitment” kind of guy. Married to the same woman for 46 years and counting. Driving the same car since 2002. And don’t even ask about that old-school archive of ancient garments that is my underwear drawer.
In short, whenever I enter into an agreement, it’s for the long haul.
That’s why my heart is heavy today, because I had to call it quits on one of my commitments. Just yesterday I sold my 2002 Honda CRV, a green metal-flake cutie that I call Cuervo.
I first met her in October of that year after being frustrated by a string of Chryslers that didn’t seem to share my depth of commitment—or at least their transmissions didn’t. And so, peeved by commutus interruptus cars that had no sense of loyalty, I turned to the Internet and typed in the question: “What is the most dependable car?”
The Internet told me that the best answer to the question for that year was the Honda CRV, so I dashed out and bought one for no other reason than that I was looking for a lasting commitment.
And now, thirteen years and more than 122,000 miles later, I can report that Cuervo was as true to her commitment to me as I was to her. Other than needing new oil, tires, brakes, batteries and wiper blades now and then, she has carried me through snow, rain, hail, sleet—all the conditions that postmen boast of battling. And all without fail or mishap on her part, or the urge to go “postal” on my part.
But yesterday, with a heavy heart, I had to kiss her goodbye.
It was an unavoidable decision, because I had to get a car that was more amenable to my wife’s stroke disabilities, and something had to go. If I lived on a farm with a big barn out back, I would have parked her there and covered her with a tarp. But I don’t have a barn, and after all, I’m not Jay Leno.
I suppose there is some comfort in knowing that the only reason I broke my commitment to Cuervo was to better honor my longer and deeper commitment to my wife. But still, I hated to be the one to say “It’s not you, it’s me” to that faithful vehicle.
There is also consolation in knowing that she is entering a fresh relationship that I hope will be as committed as ours was. Her new partner will be Angie, the niece of a friend of ours. Angie is a sweet seventeen-year-old, and Cuervo will be her first car. They’ll head off to college together in a year or so, and I imagine they will have lively times together.
Before Angie came to pick her up, I did a thorough job of clearing away all evidence of my relationship with Cuervo so they could start fresh on their own. As I dug deep into each of Cuervo’s many drawers, storage bins and shelves, I found still more lasting commitments I had made—like that bundle of ancient maps so outdated they wouldn’t even be able to guide me to my own house, which was just an empty field when the maps were new. Or so many hidden ice scrapers that I could have had five friends help me scrape ice from the windows, even though I don’t have five friends in any case. I even found a five-dollar gift coupon to Cracker Barrel, though I can’t remember where or how I got it, since I haven’t been to a Cracker Barrel in more than a decade, and I don’t even know where the nearest one is.
At last Cuervo was as naked as she had been when I first met her on that beautiful October day in 2002. When Angie pulled her gently out of the driveway and rolled off down the street, we all smiled and waved, though I had to force my smile past the catch in my throat.
And then this morning, when I went out to pick up the paper and walked right through that vacant spot on the driveway where she stood just yesterday, I felt that catch in my throat again.
I know it may seem foolish to you that I would feel sad to sit in our new car every time we go out, rather than in a thirteen-year-old car with enough miles on it to drive around the world six times, but as I said, I’m a “commitment” kind of guy. A dozen years from now I’ll probably feel the same way about our new car, which I have named Subobi. But for now, there’s only the ache.
Anyway, my wife understands. When I came back inside from the driveway with the newspaper and a sad look on my face, she put her hand on my arm and gave me that look that said, “I know.”
But I hope she understands that this might delay her plans for me to update my underwear drawer commitments.
