Requiem on a Chrysler Sebring, Ashes to Ashes, Rust to Rust

There were multiple moments this last winter when I would rev up my car (no way I was walking to class in 2 degree weather) and listen to the timing belt squeal for at least 2 minutes straight, while the battery light appeared, and I could smell the gas leak, and the crack in the windshield meant I had to scrape ice from the inside as well as the outside, and the de-fogger was useless, so I sometimes had to roll down the window enough for me to stick my scarfed-head outside and let the stinging wind freeze the tears on my face in order to see, ironically in hopes of not causing an accident.

And that was assuming the window wasn't frozen shut! Moreover, the driver's side door no longer opened from the inside, so when I got to the parking lot, I couldn't open the door or roll down the window to hit the button for my parking pass; so, I had to throw the car in park, crawl out the passenger's side door, run around my car Chinese-fire-drill style, hit the button, then open my door, jump back in and throw the car in gear...only for the engine to abruptly stall out, so I'd have to put her in neutral, crawl out the passenger side again and start pushing my car into the parking lot, all to the angry honks of the cars in line behind me, while I cursed profusely under my scarf.  ("Remember this when you're rich and famous" I told myself.)

Inevitably some kind folks would come help me push it in the rest of the way (for after all most people are basically decent), and a few hours later after class the car would start up just fine...then it was just a case of making sure I didn't pull out on a patch of built-up ice, which would inevitably catch my front fender and tear it off, which I would then have to snap back in place before speeding back to my apartment before the engine either stalled out again or threatened to overheat.

This was once a proud car; a decade ago, it was a bona fide luxury sedan--with a sunroof, 4-cd disc changer (back when that was a thing), V-6 engine, and an old-school (one colleague called it "steam punk") Nokia phone holder that predated Blue Tooth tech by years.  Even though it was already past its prime by the time I got her, she still drove like a dream.  That stylish car got me all over Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Utah, Arizona, and of course across the Midwest.   But it's time had long past, for the harsh truth is that, unlike Hondas or Toyotas, Chryslers are simply not built to last.  At all.

Frankly, I should've traded in that car a year ago--even 3 years ago.  So why didn't I?  Part of it was the standard anxiety about used car dealers--what if they rip me off, what if I get a lemon, what if something happens and I can't make payments, etc, etc, etc--but then, part of it, frankly, was sheer sentimental attachment.  Many of my generation I've noticed have deep attachments to their vehicles, often going to stupid expense (like me) to keep them running--sometimes because we can't afford a new one, but also because in these tumultuous times (there's an old Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times") your car gets you a whole lot more than just around.  It becomes part of your life, an extension of yourself.

For I can't speak for others, but that Chrysler and I have been through death and life together.  Literally.  It was the car I was picked up in when I got home from Puerto Rico, and thus was my Mom's last car drive in this life (and seeing as how today once again would have been her birthday, now seems as good a time as any to reminisce on the significance of that--for that Chrysler would never again be "just another car" after that event).

Then there was its heroic drive through that once-in-a-generation blizzard of '08.  There have been the stunning National Parks visited in it, the drives through mountain passes, the long road trips.  I've beheld the solar eclipse of the sun in that car.  The sheer number of adventures I've had with friends, dates I've gone on, girls I've kissed, the despairing depths and soaring highs and general life experiences I've had all in that car stagger my imagination.  Oh yes, that old Chrysler was always more than just a car to me.

Once, years ago, when it first began falling apart, the mechanic noted that my ability to feel which tire-rod was loose just by driving her on the freeway showed that I had a very close relationship with my car, and he was impressed.  I couldn't quite suppress my pride when I replied that that car and I had been through a lot together; little did I know how much more we still had to go through.

I called her "Silver Bullet" when I first inherited it; "Silver Surfer" after it got me through that aforementioned blizzard like a super hero; "The Italian Stallion" after Fiat bought out Chrysler ("I now drive an Italian car!" is a bad joke I told too many times); and then "The Godfather", once age and wear began to show, as a title more commensurate with its dignity.

I was its last driver (I'm pretty sure I only got trade-in value because the dealership was hungry to close that sale).  Doubtless some junkyard is already in process of stripping it for parts to live on in other faltering cars being extended beyond their intended lifespan by other young college grads.  Much as I genuinely loved that car, I of course often wish that all I've spent on repairs over the years had been put into down payments on a new vehicle instead.  But hindsight is 20/20, and one never really knows with cars, does one.  And again, it was never just another car.