Carmina

My car was a piece of shit.

Those were the first and last words I had for my silver '97 Pontiac Grand Pris. The first time was when I slipped behind the wheel of the car on a hot summer's day and realized that the air conditioning was no better than a small child blowing air into your face. Smelly air, at that. The last time was when the car took its final shuddering breaths outside my house, limping home after having died in the middle of an intersection.

But she was mine and served me faithfully for almost two years. Though it took two bottles of Febreze to remove my step-brother's body funk from the car, once I thoroughly cleaned it, she was quite passable inside and out.

She had a habit of sticking the transmission and the radio went out after the first six months, followed shortly by all four windows, of which only the driver's could be saved. If my car had gone underwater and I had a passenger, you were on your own.

Her paint was a silver with a hint of bullshit, like she was trying to pull a fast one on you and say she was actually a modern car. But I loved her and I loved her broken windows and the rearview mirror that fell off every time I hit a bump or a curb. The heating was good and overall, the car looked nice.

That was until Eric Grunes found my car with the fender of his car. It was not the best of introductions.

I had pulled up behind him in a parking spot after waiting for him to adjust his wheels. I was behind a good fifteen seconds when he put it in reverse and backed into me at full speed. After making him cry for a good ten minutes, I got his insurance information and we settled outside of the police. $600 didn't quite make up for the damage in my door that my dad could only just press out or the "HOLY SHIT" moment when my car was hit, but seeing a driver who had been behind the wheel for two weeks crumple under my fists of verbose abuse was somehow satisfying. It turned the mark on her door into a battle scar.