A humble eulogy for my first car.

You were a 1991 Toyota Camry Station Wagon, and I was a 16 year old boy with a newly printed driver’s license. It wasn’t exactly love at first sight, but eventually all the pieces came together and we created an everlasting bond that lasted throughout the whole four weeks I owned you, before your untimely death. I’ll never forget the good times we had, whether it was stalling out on the middle of the highway, or that time I couldn’t get your defroster to shut off and I almost suffered 3^rd degree burns.

When we were introduced, the first thing I said was, “You mean I have to drive that piece of shit?”. It was an unusually warm month of March for the state of Connecticut and you were sitting in the back of the dirtiest used car lot in the state. You smelled like urine. When I remarked upon this fact to the used-car salesman, he told me that he “didn’t smell the urine”, which I picked up as an immediate lie. My father bought you for me that day, not because he liked you, but simply because you were the cheapest car in New England. I’ll never forget when my father jokingly asked the salesman, “Will he survive on the trip home?”, and the salesman ambiguously replied, “Probably…”

When people asked me what car I drove, I would tell them that you were “a Camry”, always purposely leaving out the words “station wagon”, as to not give away the fact that you weren’t really a Camry but more like the Camry’s retarded step-cousin. I was ashamed of you at first; I mean who wouldn’t be when you live where I live. In Glastonbury Connecticut, every fifth car you see on the road will be a red SUV; driving a white station wagon in Glastonbury Connecticut is like sneaking into the zoo and fucking a zebra. Not only do you get tons of confused looks, but at some point a cop will come up to you and ask, “What the hell do you think you’re doing with that?”.

You were a slow car. I always used to brag to my non-driving friends that you were able to “go from zero to forty-five in twelve seconds”. Although, I would only brag about you to my non-driving friends, because if they started to laugh, I would be able to yell, “Well at least I have a car you non-driving piece of shit.”

There were a number of things broken with you, namely, the speedometer, the odometer, the heating system, the air conditioning, the glove compartment, the radio, the alignment, and the exhaust. To find out how fast you were really going, I would have to subtract 15 from whatever the speedometer read, and then multiply that by 2. I once turned on your defroster; it never shut off. Your radio would only work on Thursdays; no-one ever figured that one out. Your passenger side seat-belt didn’t work, which may be the reason I couldn’t convince many other people to ride in you; it also didn’t help that when I told them that I also jokingly told them to “not mind the bloodstains in the back”.

After I got over the whole “you’re a disgusting station wagon that may very well kill me” thing, I grew to love you. I learned how to embrace your many disconcerting noises and creaking sounds, but most importantly, I learned that having a car that could make it up small hills isn’t everything in the world. You became my friend when everyone else shunned me (They said I smelled like urine). Those 4 weeks were some of the greatest in my life.

You died on a Tuesday; the mechanics later said it was an engine problem. And although it would’ve been a lot more convenient for me if you didn’t die right in the middle of the highway, I knew you couldn’t help it. You were a true pal, and you will be missed. May you rest in peace.