To Whomever Might Steal This Car

To Whomever Might Steal This Car,

Greetings to you, lucky car-stealer. You have really stolen a jackpot. A veritable leprechaun's pot of chop shop parts and fond memories.

I can't tell you how many times I've cursed this car. I can't repeat most of the things I've said to it at the top of my lungs with the windows rolled up. The places I've threatened to impound it. Like any relationship, my car and I have experienced our ups and downs.

I got this car when I was in college. At the time, like any deceptive participant in an unhealthy partnership, the car put its best foot forward. It ran smoothly. It coasted along on the road in such a way that I felt like listening to the Beach Boys and dating a girl named Sandy. It had under 100,000 miles and it had been newly inspected.

It was destined to be my car.

Those first few weeks--the honeymoon period--were sheer bliss. The interior was leather. I always wanted car with that great, leather smell to it. Sure, it wasn't great on gas. Sure, the turn signal fuse blew after a few days and I had to signal with my hand like a twelve-year-old on a bike. Sure, the brakes were altogether perfect. All that aside, I had a great car.

Then the engine went.

I know, it doesn't make for a good story. The engine going in the first act is a little anti-climactic. After all, the engine is the heart of the car. If you kill the engine that soon in, who cares about what happens after that, right?

Well that was my life with my car. A play that ended far too early. And I was the unfortunate audience, who was made to sit in the empty theater and cry in a supermarket parking lot counting how long it would be before I actually had the damn thing paid off.

I can still hear my mother saying--"Why get a warranty? They're just trying to rob you!"

I never let her forget saying that. I bring it up every holiday (especially Mother's Day), every birthday--mine and hers, and every time she tries to harp on me about something.

"You know Mom I would have loved to have gotten you a card for you and Dad's anniversary, but I'm still paying off THAT ENGINE because I didn't get a WARRANTY."

This car has really brought me and Mom much closer together.

What could I do? I replaced the engine. I thought, Well, that'll be it at least. The engine going is the worst thing that can happen and now it's happened.

Oh, but I was wrong. Oh sure, the engine going was the worst thing that could happen ALL AT ONCE. But life is just full of little obstacles that add up until you find yourself taking a baseball bat to your own driver's side window.

First the not-so-perfect brakes became not-even-barely-functioning brakes. They had to be replaced.

After that, summer rolled around, and a funny stench starting coming from beneath the leather interior. That would have been bearable, if I hadn't kept sticking to the leather interior whenever I wore shorts. This meant that my legs now smelled like whatever was rotting away underneath my seat. I didn't dare look to see what it was--I'm not that brave.

Then the other turn signal went--no way to signal out the window on the right side, is there? Not unless you have passengers with generous spirits and good hearts. Oh! There's Mom again.

"Can I put my hand back in now? This is humiliating."
"WARRANTY, MOTHER! WARRANTY!"

Then the side mirror fell off. Then the glue melted that was holding up the rearview mirror. At one point, I was driving around with no mirrors at all, which is a little bit like being my last girlfriend--myopic and destined to crash into something.

By the time the trunk popped open and wouldn't close, I'd had it. I'd been driving around while people beeped at me and I didn't know why. I couldn't tell the trunk was open because I still hadn't put the rearview mirror back on yet.

I pulled over. I tried calming myself down. I tried deep breathing. I decided to listen to some music. That was when the radio broke and all it would play was 88.4--All Heavy Metal, All the Time.

That was when the baseball bat--the only object that didn't fly out of the trunk onto I-95--came out, and hit the window.

That was when I got out of the car, started walking, and didn't look back.

But before I did all that, I wrote this little letter. A courtesy if you will.

By the time you read this, I will hopefully have made my way back to civilization. God willing, I will not have been run over by a wayward convertible or arrested by a state trooper for being a highway vagrant with a baseball bat.

Either option will still be preferable to staying with this four-wheeled monster that has tried to destroy my sanity many, many times--and to be honest, may have succeeded today. You can't really call yourself sane when you spit on your own tires and key the word 'Idiot' into your door.

So, my dear felon, I'm leaving this car to you. I have theft insurance, so don't worry, you won't be doing me any harm by taking it. In fact, you'll be doing me a favor. It's sort of like a bad penny--if a bad penny cost you eight thousand dollars.

I hope you enjoy the car. I can't say it's been all bad. It's gotten me to many wonderful places and it's allowed me to offer many lovely people rides who otherwise would have been stranded. I've become good friends with those people, and I have my car to thank for that.

It was also the first thing I ever owned that was really mine. I guess that's why I can't be that mad at it, even now. You can't really hate your first love, because if nothing else, it taught you something.

You know what this car taught me?

Always get the goddammed warranty.

Sincerely,
Previous Owner