I heard about you through a friend-of-a-friend. Or really, friend-of-my-brother’s-roommate. “Hey Blinkie,” my bro called me and said, “my roommate’s friend is selling an '89 Accord. You interested?”
Hell yes I was interested. I was looking for my first car, within a fairly modest price range comprising contributions from both me and my parents, and an '89 Accord fit perfectly inside my requirements of “dependable, late 80’s Japanese sedan”.
You were beautiful. That (then) 13-year-old paint job looked almost as good as new, you had four doors, your flippy-uppy headlights still flipped up properly, power windows, power locks, automatic tranny for my bad knee, everything I wanted (except a cupholder, but I forgave you that).
Soon after I bought you, the trouble started. You couldn’t pass the smog check. Turns out your timing belt was replaced on time but whoever did it left something loose and oil sprayed all over the new belt and ruined it. My newly-purchased Haynes repair manual in hand, I discovered to my horror that replacing the timing belt on an '89 Accord requires taking apart half the engine compartment.
So the trusted family mechanic was $800 richer, but I had my first car. It was like learning to walk, here in Irvine – all of a sudden, Office Depot was a 5-minute drive instead of a 45-minute walk. I could actually go see movies. I could buy more groceries than I could carry home by hand. I could come home whenever I wanted.
I took good care of you. Checked your oil at least once a week, for your oilpan has a leak that I haven’t had the money to fix. Got your oil changed on time. Checked your fluids once a month. Kept your interior clean. But still you toyed with me, becoming hard to start and revving too high when I parked (really, I don’t know why an automatic has a tach, but alas it has been a useful diagnostic tool).
The trusted family mechanic was level with me. The part that was failing would require a fair amount of taking-apart, and since they’d have the car that far dissected it would be worth my while to replace the whole carburator with a rebuilt one, since it was showing its 195,000 miles. There was no rush; the car would just start poorly until I got together the money to pay for the repair.
Over this last Christmas Break, I had your carburator replaced at last, a repair for which I have not yet fully repaid my parents. Ah, at last you no longer sputter and wheeze and die and rev and argue! You start beautifully, you don’t complain when you park!
But now. Now, when I’m in the middle of not only taking six upper-division classes but am moving to a new abode (no longer within walking distance of campus). I return home from taking a load of boxes and furniture to the new place to discover coolant streaming from the underside of your engine compartment.
Why, oh why did you have to blow a radiator hose here, and now? When I have classes until 5 almost every day, and am in the middle of moving a two-person studio apartment into a master bedroom across town? When the mechanic I know and trust is a county away?
I adore you, I love the purr of your engine and the sound of the Kenwood CD player I had installed in you, I am ever grateful for the way your back seats fold down so that I can move tall furniture. Even the mechanic admired what good condition you’re in for your age. When will you stop playing with me?
