The Old, White Car

 
            The old white car was excited. He had sat in the garage for over a month now, lying in wait, fearing the inevitable. But, his fears, it now seemed, had been unwarranted.
            The pedal folded gleefully under the weight of the foot. The wheel turned smoothly under his old friend’s tight grip. He was moving again, moving fluidly down the road. His breaks groaned in agony as he approached the ‘stop’ sign, but he didn’t care: he was driving.
            It had been a tough month. He was getting old, getting worn out and, worst of all, getting expensive. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another: first the tires, then something in his engine, then the breaks. Before he knew it, he was in the garage. Sitting unused . . . waiting. It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t help it. He supposed that after a life’s hard work. his owners would understand. Would go, you know, easy on him.
            He only heard snippets of conversation that month. Hushed words and worried tones. Things like: “can we afford that?” and “but we’ve already poured so much money into it!” He wasn’t exactly sure what it all meant, but he wasn’t stupid. He could figure it out.
            He wanted to plead with them, jog their memory a little. Remind them of all those times he sat through cold, snowy nights, his glass fogged over and his doors frozen shut, waiting diligently for his owner’s key. Remind them of the thousands of miles he had put in to get them where they needed to go: weddings, birthdays, vacations . . . and then all the places still left for him, for them, to see.
            His engine whined as he pulled happily away from the familiar stop light. He knew where they were going. A wave of relief spread over him, the one he had been waiting a month for: they were headed to the repair shop. He would be fixed. Restored back to health. Live to drive another day. He had forgotten what it was to be excited, to feel wanted. He couldn’t express it, but he felt an attachment, a connection, to the owners that had stuck by him for so long. In that moment, he felt needed, even loved.
            The key turned and he felt her hand grip the door handle. A steady dripping issued from under his hood and he felt a twinge of panic rise up inside him. The girl frowned at the car and shook her head. She turned and walked slowly up to the building beside the garage and began speaking to the man at the counter. They talked for a few minutes, the man nodding somberly and the girl pointing to the car.
            The car sat soundlessly, enjoying the newfound feeling of comfort, of purpose. Soon, he would be fixed, back to driving his owners wherever they needed to go.
            The car waited. And he waited. The girl sat in the small room beside the garages, thumbing the pages of a magazine as the man typed on his computer. Why hadn’t anyone come to retrieve him yet? Why wasn’t he being fixed? But, it didn’t matter, it would all be over soon.
            A rattling broke his concentration. It grew louder and louder. The girl dropped her magazine and stood up, staring at the tow truck pulling into the lot. Surely there to pick up some poor, old car who had worn out it’s welcome with-
            But it stopped. What was more, it stopped in front of him; the old, white car.
            His mind emptied. His thoughts were blank. The methodical dripping of his engine was the only sound above the girl’s footsteps against the pavement.
            “This it?” Said the driver.
            “Yah.” Said the girl.
            “Donation or scrap?” Said the driver.
            “Scrap.” Said the girl.
            “Sign here.” Said the driver.
            And she signed. And the driver attached the car to the truck. And the driver filled out a form on his hood, while she removed his plates.
            The driver got into his truck and it rumbled to life. The white car did not. There was no key in its ignition, no foot on the pedal, no owner . . . no driver . . . no friend.
            The girl placed a soft hand against his hood and smiled a small smile. She didn’t say anything and even if he could’ve, he wouldn’t have either. For a moment, they each stared, sharing as close to a mutual understanding as either of them ever had.
            Then the truck pulled away and the car watched her as the pavement stretched beneath his back tires. His thoughts were quiet as she grew smaller and smaller in the distance, but he couldn’t help but think of her words. Of what it had all amounted to. What he was to become:
            Scrap, he thought. He was scrap.
 
            But soon enough he wouldn’t have to think about that. Soon enough, he wouldn’t have any thoughts at all.