About 5 years into owning Maxine, I started getting interested buyers. I saw an ad from my Toyota dealer soliciting purchase of this car, stating that it was high in demand. A random valet gave me his contact info in case I ever decided to sell it. But I had made this no-frills, economical purchase in the first place knowing she had a long lifespan and would take me for years through the congested streets and backed-up freeways of LA. I was committed for the long haul.
A few years ago, I started feeling antsy. Though I could tell she wasn't about to quit anytime soon, Maxine was definitely getting along in her years. Newer car models -- including the Corolla itself -- were being built differently and with sturdier constitutions. If the wind blows a little too hard, I feel as though I might get blown away, Wizard of Oz-style. I started getting annoyed with her 120 horsepower engine's slow pickup and broken CD player, and paying for upkeep and repairs started to feel a bit more painful with each passing year.
Now, 11 years and 136,000 miles later (she came with 32K miles on her), I'm finally starting to think about getting a new car. Maxine still isn't on her death bed, but the time is starting to feel right. My last oil change resulted in almost $400 worth of necessary replacements (a girl's gotta have brake pads on her car) and more repairs pending: leaky this and that, torn wiper blades, spark plugs, battery. My repair guy simply stated, "The car's just old and has 160,000 miles on it."
Ironically, as I'm reaching the point of readiness to peacefully let go of Maxine, she's been getting another recent wave of admirers. A guy at the counter commented, "I love your car," and I was certain he must have been looking at the wrong one. But he proceeded to extole the virtues of that generation of Corollas. Just last night I attended a work event at an upscale boutique hotel in Santa Monica and as I left, the valet asked me what year my car was. Unprepared for this, I asked him to repeat his question. I told him it was a 1999, and he replied, "It's good."
Lately, as I've thought about it, I actually feel sad at the prospect of parting ways with Maxine. The car's been with me through the most significant chapter of my life: young adulthood. I will always remember the times she gave Hideo a ride, both in his days as active, fun-loving DJ and friend struggling with cancer. I'll remember taking her to Scratch/REHAB for all of those semesters of classes, and cramming her with my turntables and gear for my most meaningful DJ gigs. I'll remember the guys who rode in the car that I swore I'd end up with happily ever after. She drove me to weddings and funerals of loved ones, and was there through the ups and downs of my mid-20s to 30s. But as with everything, there is a season. And this one is coming to an end.
Though homes and cars are in the end just empty spaces, we unknowingly, unintentionally fill them with memories everyday, some more meaningful than others. At the beginning of my time with Maxine, I was a know-it-all twenty-something (as all twenty-somethings are) convinced I knew the map to my life ahead. I was wrong. My most recent years have been characterized by loss and an odd contrast of very little change externally but dramatic change around and within me, and an overall sense of disorientation I'm only lately emerging from. And now, I feel a growing desire to move on.
Incidentally, I think what that means for Maxine is that this is shaping up to be our last year together. Witnesses over the years affirm her value as a reliable vehicle, and I look back with fondness and a bit of wistfulness at our more than 10 years together echoing the words of my valet last night, "It's good." Whatever my next ride will be, it's got some serious miles to fill.
(Max's flat tire episode circa 2008)
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