RIP: Flannery O'Car

Tonight at 7:15pm CST, holding a baby on my hip and peeking through cheap miniblinds, I watched my 1994 Geo Prizm, Flannery, slip away from me.

She was a good car. My best.

She'd been around the block a few times by the time we met. I'd just finished up a fabulous American Lit class focusing on the short stories of Flannery O'Connor, so when I found a few scraps of paper in the glove box indicating that my new used car originally hailed from Georgia, I knew that we were meant for each other and I knew what her name must be.

I couldn't have imagined that day in 1997, as I signed the papers to purchase her, the bumps and bruises she'd endure for my sake or the roads she'd take me on. I couldn't have imagined I'd one day be hauling a baby -- my baby! -- around in her back seat.

Her clutch gave out for the last time a couple months ago, and she's been sitting on the street in front of our house ever since. I meant to donate her to the National Kidney Foundation, but that involved a lot of paperwork; I don't have a printer at home, and DH had too many other things on his mind to remember it at work so it never got done. I didn't really mind. Functional or not, she remained a reassuringly familiar presence. Every morning as my youngest daughter sat in her high chair tearing up and occasionally eating waffles, she would point out the front window and exclaim, "Car!" (To which I would reply, "Yup! That's a car!") It became part of our routine.

Still, with the house up for sale and our curb appeal already completely lacking, I'd begun to worry that a bruised up, broken down car stuck in front of the house didn't really help the impression any, however loved she may be. I decided to do what I should have done weeks ago -- haul my rowdy brood down to Kinko's some afternoon and print out the forms required to get the NKF ball rolling. And then--

And then Alfredo came.

He knocked on our door last night just as I pulled the kids out of the bath. He asked if I'd be willing to sell the Prizm for $200. I got a phone number from him, told him I'd have to talk it over with my husband, and that I'd call him today.

I feel terrible that I couldn't donate her organs that other cars might live -- that I couldn't offer her up to a cause that helps with the donation of real organs so that people like my best friend can live. But time is running out, stress is running high, our budget is down to mere fumes. $200 and her quick removal won out over my nobler impulses this time.

So Alfredo took her away this evening. He says he's going to work on her, rather than scrap her for parts, which makes me feel good. The old girl may just have some life in her yet for someone who knows what he's doing and can afford the time and attention she needs. Time and attention that we can't afford to give her anymore.

I'm a big old emotional sap -- I'm not making this up to punch up the story -- but I cried just a little bit as he chained her to the hitch of a pickup truck, pulled slowly away from the curb, and rounded the corner out of sight. And I'm crying now.

"Car gone," the baby said.

"Yup," I replied. "The car is gone."


~RCH~