In 1994 I bought my first car, a 1985 Dodge Daytona, for $1300. I was so anxious to drive that I got the car before I got my license. We always remember our first car, and mine was no different.However, nothing lasts forever. What follows is the farewell letter I should have written to my first car, if I’d thought of it. And if it could read.(But first a picture. This isn't my car, but it's very similar. Mine wasn't a turbo, and this one doesn't ooze coolness. I think those are the only differences.)
Dear (uh-oh),I’m not off to a good start here. It just occurred to me that I never named you. What kind of guy gets a car and then fails to name it? Maybe I’ll call you Betsy. That’s what my dad always named our cars when we were kids. “Whoa Betsy!” he’d say, usually as he slammed on the brakes to avoid running a red light.I guess it’s silly to name you now, but your lack of a name doesn’t mean that I loved you any less. In fact, it kills me that we have to breakup. But let’s not focus on the negative. Let’s remember the good times.Like when I learned to drive you. Thanks to awesome grandparents, I’d been driving sporadically since I was twelve years old, but I’d never driven a stick shift before. But I loved you so much that I didn’t care if you were a stick. I wanted to learn.Thankfully, my dad knows how to drive a stick so he taught me. I apologize for that burnt clutch you suffered while I was learning. But really, has anyone ever learned to drive a stick and not burnt the clutch?No hard feelings, eh? And while we’re at it, do you think you can find it in your heart (or transmission or engine or whatever cars have instead of a heart) to forgive me for running out of gas? I know, I know, most people only have to run out of gas once before they vow never to do it again, but I learned something all three times I ran out of gas with you. So thanks for that.And thanks also for not breaking down when we drove you all the way to Indianapolis. I know that’s a long haul for an old car like you, but you handled it like a pro. Granted, we probably never made it above sixty miles per hour, but who cares?Thanks most of all for being a complete babe magnet. I mean girls were all over me during high school just because they wanted to ride in you. Okay, so I made that part up. No girls were knocking on my door in high school. But it doesn’t matter, I wouldn’t have traded you in for some hot girl anyway. Probably.Besides, who needs girls to make memories? Like that time we were driving and your muffler just fell off. Out of the blue. No warning. Quiet one minute, thunderous, ear-stabbing roars the next. That’s smooth.And how about the time you broke down in the Burger King drive-thru? Or on a deserted road while I waited for a train to pass. Or in a do-it-yourself car wash on a freezing day. Good lord you broke down a lot. Never mind though. I loved you anyway.I loved the awesome display on the dash that looked like something out of Back to the Future and told me what doors were open. I loved the way I could shift through your gears and pretend I was cool. I loved the distinct fresh smell you never lost, despite the disgusting smells associated with high school boys.I even loved the way your headliner drooped and rubbed against the top of my head. And the staples I used to try to keep it up. I loved the brake lights that were out for two years before I realized it (which we only discovered when a friend hopped out of the car to throw a bag of garbage into the hatchback—don’t ask).But it’s time to part ways, dear nameless car.It’s well known in the dating world that “a good personality” is code for an unattractive man or woman. And as mean as it is to say, I have to be honest. You have a great personality.Actually, that’s not quite right. I mean you do have a good personality, but I’m not getting rid of you because you’re ugly. You’re still awesome. Curvy and aerodynamic in that mid-eighties way, even your rather ugly maroon color has rubbed off on me.The problem is your guts. It’s what's inside that counts in this situation, and by inside I mean your engine and everything else. I just can’t drive a car that has a hole in the bottom of the engine. I’ve tried, but I can’t do it. It’s not normal to have to add a quart of oil everyday.So this is it. I’ve got to cut you loose. I know I’ll regret it someday, but I can’t worry about that. This is what’s right for me now. And as much as it kills me to say it, I know I’ll be better off without you. You’ve become a drain on me, and I just can’t do it anymore.With eternal gratitude, love, and memories,BrettTo replace my car, I bought a sharp new (used actually, but new to me) teal 1993 Chevy Beretta GT. It was awesome in a 1990s sort of way.Two weeks later I let a girl with a learner’s permit drive it. She crashed it and I had no car.When I went to sleep at night, I ever-so-faintly heard the sound of my 1985 Dodge Daytona laughing at me.PREVIOUS POST: Summer is Worth Complaining AboutIF YOU LIKED THIS POST I BET YOU'LL ALSO LIKE: In Defense of Running out of Gas, Repeatedly+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Hey, how 'bout you Share this post on Facebook and Like my page Brett Baker Writes.Want an e-mail every time I write something new? Type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button. I'm not going to send you a bunch of junk, and you can ditch me any time you want.