I once had a car I called The Bastard. Though I denounced The Bastard because the cost of maintaining him as he aged grew larger than I’d have liked, I liked The Bastard. He was a dark blue, naturally-ugly beast with exterior styling charitably described as bland. His designers focused their attention inside, where his electronically-controlled leather seats could be adjusted so precisely it was impossible to be uncomfortable. His ride was smooth and quiet, providing an oasis of calm against a monstrously loud and jarring world outside the windows. The Bastard was an old-man’s car, reminiscent I suppose of the big old boats like Buicks and Oldsmobiles that old people drove when I was a youngster and even into my early adulthood. But I did not care. The Bastard may have been designed for an old man, but it suited me perfectly. When I drove him, I was comfortable. He was a powerful old beast, too, that could take me from a standstill to ninety in what seemed like an instant.
This morning, I am taking a much newer, and much less appealing, relative of The Bastard to a new garage to have something done about ongoing “issues” that should have been addressed long ago but, for reasons of ineptitude and thievery I guess, have not. I have no connection with this newer beast; I do not feel any love for it. Unlike The Bastard, this newer monstrosity is not alive, not coursing with emotions the way he was.
I miss The Bastard. If I could find him, I’d buy him back and spend the money to return him to his glory days. But, alas, that is not to be. So, I must now go out and drive his younger relation to the Toyota mechanic and hope I can love this one just a little…all he needs to do is respond well to the intervention.