It’s a 1979 gray Monte Carlo. Affectionately called “Monty” by his owner, my husband loved that car long before he knew me. And yes, Monty is a he. He’s masculine. Loud. Proud. Big pimpin’.
For many years, he just sat in our driveway, collecting leaves. My husband would sigh wistfully at him, muttering about how he would find the time one of these days to fix him up, drive him around, patch up his wine-coloured interior, and lovingly restore him back to good driving form. It never failed that, on our way out to the family-sensible black Mazda 3, that my husband would always gently pat the hood of the Monte Carlo, and give a low, respectful greeting: “Monty.” It was an acknowledgement, a way for him to communicate with his first and dearest man-love that he was still thinking of him, still pining for the days before he was married when they used to cruise the roads together, the wind in his hair, the roar of his engine, their souls entwined. I, for the most part, was unimpressed, and vaguely hostile. “'Sup, Monty,” I would mutter, knowing it needed to be said, but as the new woman in the picture, and ultimate victor of my husband’s heart, Monty knew I didn’t really mean it.
Come about a year ago, I found myself in need, for the first time in my life, of obtaining a driver’s license. It was a requirement for my new job; a fallback, in case we needed an extra to do deliveries if our drivers were to all get sick at once. Well, that was okay, as then my husband would gleefully be able to take Monty out and “give him some serious road time”, as he liked to put it. The Monty needs to be run now and again, so he knows he’s still loved. I would take the Mazda, a wholly respectable car that my husband knew I could be trusted with. I wasn’t very happy; now my husband would get some quality time with Monty, perhaps remembering how much he really adored it. Jealousy set in. Arguments ensued. How could he be seen about the town with that… that monstrosity?! It belched, it roared, it was completely uncivilised. And what would people think? Driving great distances without his wife by his side, being seen about the town with… with… and heaven forbid, what could happen if they broke down somewhere in the middle of nowhere…
They could reconnect. Then it would all be over.
So, several months pass, and I drive along in the lovely little Mazda, who is a female, and is, as a matter of fact, a well rounded and pleasant companion. She’s very dignified and sensible. I learn to drive and drive well with her, and she guides me into being a safe, respectable driver. And then it happens.
My husband approaches me one day, with a hang-dog expression.
“I need you to drive Monty.”
“What?! I can’t drive that thing! It’s too big! It’s a big boat! He… he scares me!”
“It’s just too far. It takes too much gas to drive as far as I do. You only have to drive ten minutes to get to work.” The look in his eyes… rejection. Monty won’t have him. Monty won’t take him back! I, again, am the victor! But…
“I’ve never driven the Monte before. I wouldn’t know how.”
“I’ll show you.”
After some short, timid lessons around the block, we trade off cars. I watch, tight-lipped, as my good friend and companion, the Mazda, pulls gently and safely out of our narrow driveway and into the even narrower alley, carting my husband off to work. I turn grimly to look at Monty.
First, the key sticks. I can’t get the driver’s side door open. I hear a low chuckle. I move instead to the passenger side door and let myself in.
After clambering over and into the driver’s seat, I start the ignition. I pump the gas a couple of times, listening to the monstrous roar. I peek sheepishly out of my window, hoping I’m not disturbing the neighbours. What a racket! I have been told I need to let Monty warm up a bit. Okay. No problem. After about ten minutes of warming up and occasional revving, I put it into reverse to back out of the driveway. I roll about two feet and stall. Sigh. Park, restart, warm up again. I wait another ten minutes. I realise that Monty is going to make me wake up 20 minutes earlier each day. I curse under my breath. I enjoy my sleep and take all of it I can get. Monty is going to put a stop to that. Grumble.
I pull out as gently and slowly as I can. Our alley is very narrow. The Mazda had no problem whatsoever. The Monte, however, is long. Jerky taps on the gas, inch by inch, I worm my way out. THUMP. CRUNCH. I hit the brick wall behind me. I wince. I pull forward. I tap the garbage bin. I pull backward. Crumble. I pull forward. Thump. Backward. Ah, cleared the wall this time. I sigh heavily and drive down to the road. When I did finally arrive at work, my hands were shaking. I hated that Monty.
After about a week, I began to carefully venture out in the Monte on my lunch breaks. Just to nearby places, somewhere to pick up lunch. I was tentatively getting used to Monty and his quirks. He still didn’t like me, and I definitely loathed him, but I could get from Point A to Point B. It was on one of these trips that, while trying to make a turn at a stoplight, Monty sort of hung for a few seconds - I tapped the gas, wondering why we weren’t moving, and suddenly we lurched forward, spinning our tires. People’s heads turned. I shrunk behind the wheel, red as a beet.
Co-workers quickly discerned that I was low on transmission fluid. While using the funnel to replenish, I scolded Monty about how respectable cars don’t leak transmission fluid, and to cut it out. I had to take him in for a checkup, anyway. Monty was silent.
Things went well for a little while. I started noticing other drivers noticing me. They’d give the Monte an appreciative look, and wave at me. I’d cautiously wave back, thinking they were nuts. My husband explained later on that the Monte made me look like a gearhead chick, which is supposedly really frickin’ cool. Sigh. If only they knew, I thought.
Then we went through a period where the door didn’t want to shut all the way. I’d slam it as hard as I could, and usually it would close fine. Then the handle on the inside of the door started pulling away. Sigh.
I finished grocery shopping one day after work, pulled the door closed behind me, and set off on the road. Up the hill, all the way, then turn right and I would be just about home.
Except that when I took that right turn, the door swung all the way open.
I screamed, reached out and grabbed the loose handle, pulled the door, slamming it shut, all while continuing to accelerate my way into the turn and continue on my merry way home. People at the intersection stopped and stared. One guy was pointing and laughing. My cheeks burned with rage. When I got home, I got out and kicked Monty’s tires. I seethed curses under my breath as I took the groceries out. Inside, I put a bag of chicken into the freezer, and the door didn’t close all the way. I pushed it shut, grumbling, “Not you, too?”
I swore up and down I’d never drive that car again. From that day on, it was the “Were-car”. Yes, just like in Futurama. Except I was dealing with a Chevy, not a Chrysler.
After many attempts at calming me down, my husband took Monty to his local, trusted mechanic, explained the problems, and drove me into work for a few days. When Monty came home, I was leery of him, but after seeing the door was fixed, decided to give him another chance.
I decided it was time for one of us to choose another tack, and since Monty wasn’t about to change, I decided I would have to give it a shot. At stoplights, I started being more encouraging. I would mutter, “Come on Monty, you can do this, let’s go, baby.” I would gently stroke the gigantic steering wheel. Co-workers began to notice an improvement in my driving ability. I got compliments on the car all the time. One co-worker pointed out that he’d noticed me steering one-handed out in the parking lot one day, and that I’d looked pretty darn cool doing it. Hmm. I started trying it out more often. I’d open the windows on nice days and drive one handed, one arm out the window, just like I’d seen my Dad do when I was a little girl. My Dad was pretty cool. I wondered what he would think of his little girl being able to handle such a monstrous beast of a car. I never told him, because he’d tell Mother, and Mother would have a heart attack. I should only drive respectable cars, after all. I told this to Monty one day.
He laughed.
Months passed, and we were getting along quite well. Sometimes I’d hear him call on days when I was home alone and he was sitting out in the driveway. “Come on, bitch, let’s go for a drive!” he’d say. And while, at first I was put off by this, I came to realise it was just how he was. That’s just the way Monty rolls. Once I understood that, well, we started to get along just fine.
Sometimes I’d take the sensible Mazda out, if both cars were home then the Mazda would be in the back, and for making a quick errand-run, it’s easier to take the Mazda out. She’s still pleasant, but I soon realised she handles like a bumblebee. Zip, zip, zip, zoom! Tiny, cramped, and just touching the gas makes you go quickly. Monty builds up slowly. You’ve got to finesse him. I stopped at a stoplight in the Mazda and nearly went through the window 50 feet before I got there.
Not long ago, on my way to work, smoke began to pour out of Monty’s vents. “Oh, no!” I thought, and finished my short trek to work, and pulled him into the garage across the way. Heater core, I was told. He’d have to keep Monty overnight.
I began to fret and worry. People started asking if I was interested in selling. Maybe, a couple months ago, I might have, but… but… there was an ache in my chest, suddenly. It hadn’t been there before. Let me discuss it with my husband is what I’d tell them… and my husband said if it cost more than $1000 to fix what’s wrong with Monty, we’d have to sell him. He just wasn’t worth it. I nodded, but my chest was tight.
It cost $550, all said and done, as it was not just the heater core, but Monty had leaked oil all over the place, and that was stinking things up, and other technical car jargon things were involved that I know little about. But we got him back, and I was relieved that we weren’t going to sell him.
Monte is a thirsty car. I stop at the 7-Eleven frequently to get him a big gulp. I’ve noticed that if I keep the tank fuller, he rides smoother. I keep an eye on the transmission fluid. I let him warm up as long as he needs.
A month ago, I was transferred to another store in the area. Better opportunities for growth in the company, better money, etc. Monty would have to drive further. We’d have to take the viaduct. My husband asked me if I’d be more comfortable with a new car. Something smaller, something more respectable. I told him let’s wait and see how I do.
These days, if my husband and I are going on a trip, I pass Monty, giving him a gentle pat on the hood, and mutter, “Monty.” He knows I’ll be coming back. He knows I like to open up on 99 when there’s little traffic, laughing and waving to those with mouths agape at the fire-headed lady behind the wheel of the 1979 gray Monte Carlo.
My husband smiles as his wife and old flame rip-roar around town, totally disrespectful and uncivilised. He understands completely.
*Now, watch us work it
Work it out
Watch us work it
Work it inside out
Baby we can work it out
Let’s put it back together*
