On the Honda Accord

A man can be almost inappropriately attached to his car.

The story of this car, named 1HGC begins in Ohio. 1HGC was built by countless men, women and robots, both foreign and domestic. He lived the first half of his life in the gentle hands of a church going security guard from the Bronx. He only drove to work and to church or so he said. His paint job was intact after five years of steady and responsible driving in the irresponsible borough of the Bronx. A real feat.

Buddy wanted to help move more Bronx residents to church on Sunday. Perhaps they were extended family or maybe his wife's friends. It may have been a Sunday school class. Buddy needed more than a mid-size sedan. Four doors are fine but he wanted more.

I stumbled into a lower ranking role in a large consulting firm. These firms make billable hours from technicians in the field. in the field means on the road. I got my drivers license (another story entirely). But I didn't have a car. I didn't have the money or the wherewithal to buy one. My uncle picked me up at 4:00 AM to drive me to the work site and picked me up at 4:00 PM from the work site. Eventually I got behind the wheel. And I crashed it.

My career looked like it was finished. My mother bought Buddy's car and kept it in her name for me to drive. I had gotten a shot and my mom wouldn't let me waste it. Even though I was white collar; the only people who I felt comfortable with were the blue collar construction guys, the Italians, Mexicans and Puerto Ricans.

​ I worked in cleaning up illegally dumped toxic waste, specifically in hauling it out of the ground and all the regulated activities thereafter. After a lacklustre performance in the field, I was sent from the forest to the corporate jungle of the New Jersey suburban office environment, where I could tell they were planning on letting me go. A couple of weeks without billable hours is all they would need to terminate my employment. Through heroic efforts, and the steadfast support of those few who recognized my essential qualities, I survived the winter and attained my coveted transfer to Manhattan. A true turnaround unexpected by all.

Before leaving the dumps of New Jersey, I'd like to relate one more example where 1HGC saved me. While still not liked, I was at least beginning to be trusted. The boss had left me to clean up the sensor equipment and pack it up for the weekend. I completed the shutoff procedures and wiped them down before putting them in their cases. When they were all packed up I placed the sensors into a large cardboard box. I placed the box on the roof of my car and opened my door to put away my clipboard. I looked it over, scribbled down some data and threw the clipboard on the passengers seat. Without a moments thought I jumped in the car, slammed the door, hit the engine and raced away from the site;down an empty dirt road through the woods. It hit me when I reached the pavement a mile from the site. The instruments. The damn instruments I left on the roof. The damn expensive instruments left in my care that I left on the roof. I slowed down and and stopped and by the grace of god: There they sat. The smooth suspension and lady luck together held that box to my roof and saved my job from extinction.

The boss spat when he told us we would have off for "the good doctor kings day". That night I ordered two Obama bumper stickers in support of his primary challenge to Hillary Rodham Clinton. Forever after 1HGC wore those stickers as battle flags on either side of his now somewhat scuffed bumpers. 1HGC told the world that his driver was betting on a challenger. When Obama won that primary 1HGC told the world he was betting on a champion. When Obama was handed the recessionary mess and stood up as an American statesman, 1HGC told the world he bet on winner when he was just a long shot. And thus 1HGC was dubbed: the Obamamobile.

Through it all, my wife supported me with great compassion.

Marriage is really something on the next level. I really never thought I would be married, even though I was, as you could guess, always a romantic. It seemed so formal, like something religious people do. but it all happened quickly, and most amazing, it all happened so naturally.

In New York, I applied the lessons I had learned among the sociopaths and creeps in the woods and made sure to compete to the fullest of my abilities. Despite great success in New York. We needed to head to Canada.

We packed our bags and drove up to the north country and Canada in the dead of winter. The Obamamobile took me on icy roads and held me steady with no winter tires or special maintenance.

When the recession hit I had too few friends to help me. So I came back home. We packed up the Obamamobile so tight we couldn't see the rear-view from the mirror. We were Beverly hillbillies. But he took us home.

By the time we came home the ride was getting a little rough. Honda offered a voluntary recall on parts only. The labor would be provided by the Seanahan brothers but at a cost. Once again my parents stepped in and covered the hundreds of dollars needed to drop in a new tranny. Did I deserve it? I cannot say. But I am grateful to this day.

By this time I had taken on some interesting jobs in the New York metro area. I spent the spring in Long Island tearing down an old warehouse. Obamamobile and I would speed around the site. I would attach a cart to stick and jam it in the door and move my equipment around the site. He would take me where I needed to go and help me work once I got there. I must have billed out hundreds of dollars in expenses as he got it done for me day in and day out.

Finally we got a reprieve. An offer in Canada. Come work for a big American auto company in the plant. Car not included. "We jumped on that opportunity. We loaded that car again to the gills and hired a truck for the rest. We landed in Canada. We were not prepared.

When we went to import the car they took away our plates but refused to give us new ones. The Obamamobile drove over the border and into Toronto with no plates. The Obamamobile drove over the roads with no plates. No license plates, no registration. He was not even legally imported yet.But as is true in most things, just because it is illegal does not make it impossible. When finally he was ready to get his Canadian blessings, the Obamamobile was valued at four thousand dollars.In truth he had been scarred by his time with us. By now he had scraped doors, broken fenders and rusting panels. He was maybe worth four thousand dimes or maybe four thousand quarters, but never four thousand dollars. The border agent was unmoved by my appeal. She held her line. And I held mine. Finally after hours of polite but passionate arguing, she went on break. The young man took one look and said: "Yeah thats not worth four thousand dollars, can you pay the tax on a thousand and get out of here?" I could, and I did.

At the plant the Obamamobile was always under threat from the depredations of the infamous autoworkers. I am proud to say he never faced any abuse.

Unfortunately he did suffer worsening rust and a few more injuries. Without the trusted shanahan brothers his level of maintenance fell. I tried to offer him back to my parents, I even drove him back to New York. They did not want him and by now his weakening suspension made the long drive more tiring. I brought him him but I had already given up on a long life together. He was now dubbed: The shitbox.

The shitbox had moments of life.When he failed emissions we went on a mission to get cheaper auto parts in Michigan. We brought back the evap and the solenoid. My friend Bill threw him on jacks and changed out his part in a mall parking lot.When he passed we all celebrated. We thought he could help me get to work while Sarah drove a nice new American car with the kids. Meanwhile the parking tickets piled up and the maintenance was deferred.

When we moved to a place with no parking we could no longer afford to keep two cars nearby. When he was struck with a snow plow his front plate fell off. When he was ticketed for missing a plate we gave up hope.

The Shitbox moved from one factory parking lot to another. He would be exercised once a season and would otherwise sit and sheets of snow waiting for what was next to come.

Over the summer I gave the wife the van for the kids so that she could take our growing family to her mother's house. I would revive the Shitbox and get him on the road again. He took two jumps to get him on the road. On the highway his coolant temp jumped off the charts. I took his home and pondered my next move.

We hoped it would be just a thermostat. A six dollar part easy to change and available everywhere. We feared it was a blown gasket, a warped head or a dead water pump. When she gurgled and died we gave up hope and considered our options.

Tonight as I took out my kids from the van, the little girl refused to budge. She screamed and railed against the injustice of having a brother. She tempered and she tantrum-ed and I tried to distract myself until it would be over. I looked up a scrap yard. Scrap your car for cash, it said. While the little girl continued her outlandish tirade I called the scrap for cash.

An impassive and practical woman speaking accented english negotiated the price. She said the Shitbox would never run again. He was now just scrap metal. He was only scrap metal. No one would fix him and no one wanted his parts. I told her he had a new transmission a new hood. I said he ran well and had under two hundred thousand miles. I told her I did not care about the money. I just wanted to see the Shitbox run. I want that car to have more life. He has more to give. He has power under it all. His radio works. His engine might not be blown. She said it did not matter. If he could not run now, she would not bother trying to fix him. I agreed.

When it was over and the deal was done, the little girl was still ranting against injustice. I told her calmly but firmly that she needed to see this car. I asked her if she had seen an engine. She calmed down to say she hadn’t. I took her to the car and opened the hood. She pointed at the battery and asked if it was the engine. I told her no, that majestic hunk of metal is the engine. I told her about pistons, about air and about fuel. I told her how an engine breaths in and explodes. how the explosions drive the shafts which turn gears. I told her about how a radiator can protect an engine and how it did not protect this engine. I told her how sometimes things just have to die. I told her it is OK to feel sad about that but its important to see the good and keep moving. We opened up the trunk and the passenger doors. I told her to find anything she liked and she could keep it. She found three dolls and a mirror. I found five American dollars and gave it to her. I cleaned out any tools that were still in the car. I cleaned out old papers and old oil bottles and other garbage that had accumulated since 2007. I closed the trunk and locked the doors.

When the tow truck driver told me he couldn't pay full price because the "Cattle-Attic Convoyter" was "new". I was holding the baby. So I had no time to argue. We met in the middle and shook hands. The tow trucker and his young lady helper hooked it up and drove it off. I would take that money and buy the wife a nice dress for her birthday with it. Something blue and beautiful. We said goodbye.

This car kept me in the running in a world that really does not care whether I run or not. This car represents the investment my parents made in my success. They recognized the importance of critical tools at critical moments. Some would argue I was spoiled. I should have taken a car note and done it myself like a real man. Well maybe that's your story and you can sit down and write it all out and we can all admire your independence and your fortitude and how you look like John Wayne when the lighting is just right.

I recognize that I might not have made it without this car. I am grateful that my mom and dad spent their valuable money on a quality used vehicle to help me get my start. Not enough money to let me believe I am a scion of wealth and taste but enough to ensure my safety on that jungle we call the road.