"Requiem For A Lexus"

Yesterday was not my best day.

I donated the car I don’t drive anymore to charity.

Yesterday morning, they came and hauled it away.

The number 27 comes up twice here. 

I had owned the vehicle they drove off for 27 years.

And  now, for the first time since I was 27,

I do not own a car.

I remember when I bought my ‘92 dark green, two-door Lexus SC400.  I had given my old car to Rachel – who required it for college – so I needed a new one.  I had also signed the most lucrative contract of my career. 

I decided to treat myself to a luxury vehicle.  No Bentley, but “up there.”

I recall my hand shaking as I wrote out the check.  And how upset I was when the salesman pressed me hard to buy snazzier hubcaps.  (I almost called off the deal.  Paying that much for the car and now he wants more?  I mean, there’s extravagant and there’s stupid.  The “standard” hubcaps looked fine.)

For a while, I did not use it that much.  My new deal included a driver.  (Though I suspected his salary had been deducted from my contract, my “Gift Driver” thereby “gifted” to me by me.)

I took great care of my Lexus.  Regular tune-ups.  Fixing the “dings.”  Repainting the scratches.  That car had more layers than a Da Vinci painting.  (Look it up.  He did layers.) 

It was my car.  And I insisted it look perfect.  (Not for me.  It drove better “pristine.”)

When I was crashed into at the dealership parking lot, though the company’s inducements on a “replacement” were generous – because they crashed into my car – I steadfastly said no. 

It spent four months in the “hospital.” 

When it was ready, I was waiting.

Then the DMV said, “Time for a test.” 

And it was downhill from there. 

Let me be clear here.  I have never driven “for pleasure.”  I don’t even know what that means.  (I imagine the driving equivalent of Homer Simpson’s “Ooooh, donuts.”)  But with a car especially that car – I had comfort, I had convenience, and most importantly,

I had freedom. 

I came and went as I wanted.

Now, it’s Lyft.

My rides dependent on cell phones and strangers.

My legs felt anchored to the porch as I watched it it rolled onto a truck that held cars I knew my car was better than.  Maybe all car donors feel that way.  They’re wrong, but God bless ‘em.

I really thought I was ready.  But when they drove it away,

It hurt.

27 years is a long time.

And now it’s no more.

“It’s a car, Earlo – a hunk of metal, with wheels.  Get over it.”

I will.

But not right away.

In lieu of a picture, an accompanying song (with a nod to “Pinocchio”):

“I’ve got no wheels to drive around

To carry me all over town

I once had a lovely car

I got no wheels no mar.”

(Last word sung in a seafarer’s dialect.)