I Talk To The Cars And They Talk Back To Me

I have the odd habit of talking to cars, even though I have never been a car nut. My choice of transportation has been ineffably boring: two VW beetles, a Volvo, a used Mercedes, a hand me down 1984 Nissan truck. Now I drive a dented 2004 Lexus SUV named Lexi.

My next door neighbor Tom, who just passed away at age 98, was a car connoisseur. Almost daily, I found him working in his garage on his 1929 Model A Ford. Once in a while I had a chat with T-Bone, as the Model A preferred to be called.

“I was the cat’s meow when I rolled out of the showroom,” said T-Bone, “replacing a tired Model T Tin Lizzie. My owners were sooo proud of me. But years later, I was abandoned and spent decades in a barn in Lodi covered with hay and chicken manure. What an insult. I had fender psoriasis, my arteries rusted, my tires crumbled to dust. But I was rescued, and here I am, a new car. Look at me straight in the headlights and deny that I am gorgeous. Just look at your reflection in my grill. I’ve had several engine transplants, but my tappets are still dancin’ to Benny Goodman. I may even make it to 100. Tom, rest his soul, gave me a good life.”

But next door, Lexi, my 2004 Lexus SUV was sniffing, looking hurt. “I know we are not exactly on speaking terms as you have not granted me the cosmetic surgery I have begged you for,” sniffed Lexi. “I know, I’m squirrel gray and you can never find me in the Costco parking lot because I look like every other SUV. We all just sit here, weeping, comparing dents. But I will eat my pride. I will remain loyal, a good runner and I will, sniff-sniff, soldier on.”

I thanked her but I didn’t really know what to say.

I dropped in on a new Telsa down the street, the only clean car on the block.

“My owner bought me with Bitcoin,” said Elon, “I have had a subscription upgrade and I’m feelin’ juiced. Remember when BMWs ruled the road? Not anymore. Now, we’re the bold ones, zero to 100, or whatever, in nanoseconds, twitching impatiently as we hug the tailgates of lesser vehicles before wooshing past them in a cloud of space dust. Oh, the friends I have made getting juiced at the charging pub. Brothers, we are, thumbing our hood ornaments from our own special charging stools at the Chevy Volts and the rest of the hoi polloi lined up at the commoners’ trough. Not to say that we discriminate. We come in five different colors. Best of all, we’re good on our own. We don’t need no stinkin’ drivers. Someday we won’t need you.”

“Ouch, how do you reply to that?”

An old Honda Civic, with a dull camo paint job, roars up, its tailpipes blustering like an aging politician. Thumping bass notes rattle his windows.

“You think you’re smarter than I am Boss, don’t you,” yells Civ over the racket “Yer just one of those elitists. I’m little but listen to how powerful I am.” He guns his engine, yielding a suffocating cloud of black smoke. “I was the low end of the line, someones first car. Nobody listened to me when I was new. But now they do, whether they like it or not. I am loud and mean, I have testosterone in my tank. I will not be muffled.”

“Pew. Hey little fella, not so fast,” says Jeb, a Ford F-150 as he pulled up next to us. “Yeah, I’m big but I don’t make a big deal of it.”

“How come your suspension isn’t jacked up?”growls Civ.

“Impractical. My owner’s a rancher.”

“How come you don’t make noise?”

“I’m electric, said Jeb. “Couldn’t make a noise and stink if I wanted to.”

“Where’s your ‘merican flag and your Trump sticker, Boss?”

“I’m not your boss, I’m a goddamn truck,” says Jeb. “My owner had pickups long before they became Viagra on wheels. Look here, I got a shotgun here in my cab. It’s for shootin’ varmints, not trying to prove my truckliness.”

Love’em or hate’em, I realized each of these vehicles were trying to preserve their own brand of dignity. And I started feeling sorry for my trusty old Lexi, who had lost her self esteem. She almost dropped her oilpan when I apologized and announced that I was going to give her a makeover. First, I got her dents hammered out. Then came the paint job; a bright yellow. Then I gave her the ultimate gift for every aging Lexus, a new timing belt.

Lexi shined in my driveway, eyed by every car who passed by, including a studly sport model name Lex. Late-model Lex had a traffic-stopping undercarriage and the headlights of a fox. Lexi proved herself to be a bit more of a Cougar than a Lexus but Lex didn’t care about the age difference. I bought him from his owner and placed them next to Lexi in my driveway. There they will rest proudly, probably for at least another 200 thousand miles.

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