How (Not) to Maintain Your Ride

Starting right after your fifteenth birthday, having a car can become a powerful thing. I still remember the stresses of perfecting backing around the corner (which I've used twice since 2006), the thrill of never again having to beg a parent for a ride, and the drama that surrounded my daily fight for a parking spot at school. Ever since my grandmother's 2003 Subaru Forester was passed down to me (thanks for getting too old to drive, Grandma! You rock!), I've been obsessed with driving, and the freedom that my own vehicle has always represented. Believe it or not, when I was 16, that Subaru made me the shit, as far as I was concerned.

It would be years until I realized that Subarus are universally acknowledged to be the cars of lesbians and soccer moms, and that most people who met me would refer to it as the "Lezbaru." You know what? I can live with that.

I have a better name for my car: Steve. Steve the Subaru. I call him Steve because of this little face I can make out of his control panel.

Doesn't he just look like a Steve?

Over the years, I have not been as kind to Steve as one might wish. I frequently am so low in funds that Steve very nearly runs out of gas. The "oil" and "check engine" lights are more like "decorative displays" than actual warning signs. And Steve's number one purpose is that of trash can.

Steve, on a clean day.

All of my friends are well aware, at this point, how obsessed I am with driving. I hate being in the passenger seat, not just because most of my friends are notoriously dangerous drivers (no offense, ladies), but because I can't stand the lack of control. I need my music, I need my diet coke in its specific cup holder, and I need to be able to chain smoke at will.

So any time we're driving anywhere, I will always, always volunteer - nay, fight tooth and nail! - to be the driver. I stopped asking for gas money long ago, recognizing that my high budget for gas was entirely of my own making.

As a result, Steve has taken my friends and I to McDonald's probably thousands of times. Steve has served as the conference room for every significant argument, breakdown, or counseling session to take place in my friend group. Steve has driven us on every road trip, major or minor. Most of my memories, good and bad, have been in Steve. That sounds wrong, but I don't care. I love Steve. I am almost always inside Steve. You can take that however you want.

So imagine my repeated horror when, over and over again these past two years, every single part of Steve has broken down at one point or another.

The window motors had to be replaced, probably because of how often I roll them up and down based on lighting or smoking cigarettes. The tires are perpetually bald, probably because of my tendency to "feel out" the location of the curb when parking. The heat was non-existent for six straight months, and OK, I didn't get that one fixed immediately because I like it cold and my friends always crank it when I'm not looking, but finally it snowed and I had no choice. The wiring and audio is consistently faulty, probably because I let my ex-boyfriend tinker with it one time too many. The brakes; the brake pads; the "gaskets" and "valves"; the "alignment"; the "radiator hose"; the "belts" and the "coolant"; the "power steering rack"; you name it, it's broken in the last 24 months.

Note the "quotes," because frankly, I don't know what half that shit means.

Going in to the service station is always a terrible experience, and that's really what I'm getting at. Every time I take Steve in for ONE measly little problem, like, I don't know, "It won't start" or "Every time I brake going downhill it makes this horrible grinding noise like I'm running over a thousand iron squirrels," I get a call from the garage with literally TWENTY things that "need" fixing.

I try to ask sly questions, like, "Welllll do I really need to replace that...part today? Like, is it life or death?" To these, I get wishy-washy repsonses that all end with, "...eventually it could _____ and you will explode and die." Basically, every problem could be a life-or-death one.

The truth, I suspect, is that the service technicians recognize that I am a complete idiot who has no idea what they're talking about and could potentially get charged hundreds more dollars than necessary without noticing. They are 100% correct.

Unfortunately for them, (and fortunately for me), it is not I who pays for Steve's many repairs. So when I received that dreadful phone call on Tuesday afternoon, I did what I always do when I feel sure that I am being walked all over, what any mature 21 year old would do: I called my mom.

This, by the way, is my mom, and a woman who inspires fear wherever she goes.

Sigh...my hero.

In conclusion, I am probably not fit to own and drive a vehicle. My insurance company certainly doesn't think so. Maintaining said vehicle is clearly not my strong suit. One day, I hope to be savvy (or at least scary) enough to not jump in terror every time my auto shop calls me...but for now, Steve and I will have to limp along, much as we always have. 

I'm so sorry, Steve. You deserve a much better Lesbian Soccer Mom than I.