A few weeks ago--quite spontaneously, I might add--I found myself sitting behind a large desk in a small windowless room. Dozens of forms streamed out in triplicate from an obnoxiously large industrial size computer the likes of which I'd never seen. A nice man of medium build and unprecedented dexterity sat in front of me, perforating and tearing edges off the printed papers with superhuman speed.
I couldn't blame him. After three hours of delicate negotiations and only a pen poised in hand, I could easily change my mind.
"Congratulations," he said, beaming. "You must be overjoyed to be moving on and experiencing something new."
"Well, you know Jeff," at least I think it's his name. I really wasn't paying close attention, because, as usual, I found myself at a crossroads of sorts, not sure what I wanted to do. "One would think one would be, wouldn't they?"
His expression changed from giddy optimism to puzzled confusion. Again, I couldn't blame him. I was the equivalent of a ten-car pileup of an emotional wreck (not to mention I was speaking in tongues).
"See, Jeff. It's not like I was asking for a change, or actively pursuing one. We have been together for almost eight years now, you know. It's not an easy transition to say the least. We've raised a family together, from the first trips home from the hospital in infant carriers to countless Saturdays in booster seats to visit the zoo. There were field trips and road trips to the lake for the summer, singing ABBA songs and counting cows, cornfields, and inappropriate licenses plates along the way. We've coordinated sleepovers, birthday parties and unexpected rides to the pediatrician with a broken arm and strange high fevers. There’s been laughter, tears, and fights. We've never really ever been apart."
"I know it must be hard,” he tells me, placing the forms in front of me. "But if you could just initial here, here, and here, and sign here after dating there . . ."
"I know, Jeff . . . I know. It's time to let go. How long can something this great last in this messed up muddled up world? All the wear and tear, the mileage and the money that's required to keep it up. It's just . . . you know, Jeff, it just not that easy to let go."
"Lady, do you want to buy the car or not?" I swear the lights dimmed and the
Muszak died.
In the end, Jeff was right. We had a great ride, my Yukon XL and me, but it was time to move on. After my wrist developed carpal tunnel and my right thumb and forefinger went numb, I somehow was able to release the pen, grab my purse and head for the door
I turned to him, "Can I at least say goodbye?"
"Of course," his mood suddenly brightening again. It was two hours past closing after all. "Don't forget all your stuff inside it."
Oh yeah. The stuff. All eight years worth of it.
Three hours later and all I can say is my new car seems, quite suspiciously, to look like my old car; only smaller and sans the large mango smoothie stain, that for whatever reason, I was never able to get up. Here's a quick inventory so far: A large push up bar that was supposed to go with the p90x so Charlie and I could both lose a "few" pounds before swimsuit season. That ship has obviously sailed, but not the box of resistance weights and the DVD in the way back that tells us how we’re supposed to do it. Three extra large noodles (not the pasta kind but the pool kind that my girls more appropriately have dubbed "wedgies"), one deflated inner tube, a pair of mismatched crocs, and a leaking tube of SPF 50. Seven Harris Teeter recyclable green bags, three thermo cooler totes, and several wine discount carriers that somehow crawled behind the back seat with good intentions but have never since ventured forth; 75 lbs of change, golf tees (?), an assortment of random rocks, Polly Pocket legs, and a mini fold-up Strawberry Shortcake toothbrush (used). And that's just scratching the surface, though I was pleased to find my Coach leather boot that’s been MIA for two winters in the Bus.
See, in our family we have a habit of naming our cars. Charlie’s is the Bat Mobile, because, as he tells it, the car is like its namesake: a “sleek, mean street machine,” and . . . oh yeah, it’s black. The Jeep is the Green Hornet because, well . . . you guessed it, it’s green. My Yukon was called the Bus. That name is pretty obvious, too. Not only can it transport a family of eight, half a dozen pets, and two 12-foot tandem kayaks, but the way back could house the entire wardrobe for all the cast members on a seven-day Disney Cruise.
So y’all, riddle me this: How could I be so attached to a two-ton moving mud room that cost more to fill up than a round trip plane ticket to Miami, as well as, dinner for four at Barton G’s including after-dinner drinks and dessert? I guess it’s just that I got a lot more mileage out of those four, recently converted hydrogen-filled tires than just tread on the pavement. For almost a decade, it carried us all safely, reliably, with great strength and fortitude through our many milestones as a family. And, as my husband liked to point out for the past several years, she was finally paid for so we were stuck with her whether we liked it or not.
My husband did get a call a week or so ago from the new family across the way who bought our bus. They wanted to know if it had been good to us all of these years. After he assured them everything was just fine, I swear I spotted a tear in the corner of his eye as he hung up. It had been good to him too.
So, happy trails my sweet, old reliable bus. Thanks for the memories. I’m sure you are already making more as we speak in your Cheerio-encrusted, smoothie-spilling, gas-guzzling trip called life.
Writers Note: I usually pride myself on the fact that almost all of my stories are 95% true. I am known to embellish though from time to time, and this story would be one of those exceptions. First and foremost, the folks at Nalley are wonderful, courteous, and always professional. Thanks for always taking good care of us. Second, my husband wants me to tell you he never shed a tear after talking to the new family who bought the bus. He’s right. But when asked “What if I accidently backed into the Bat Mobile, then had the girls cover up the dents with leftover black spray paint?” he did get a little misty.
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