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She was white like Jet-puffed marshmallows with a body like a Mako shark. She was unappologetic as she hoovered over the asphalt, weaving though traffic on wheels that hugged corners as if she were on a roller coaster track.
She was my 1993 Ford Probe GT. And she was a wonderous machine. A V6 engine. Rear spoiler. Aerodynamic design. Anti-lock brake system. Dual airbags. She drew stares from other members of the high-performance motorists cult. Her headlights triumphantly flipped up each night at dusk as she guided me home by her divine light. But all things so beautiful have tragic weeds that grow underneath them and eventually get so tall that when you walk through them the sticky thistles get caught in your socks and you have to pluck them out by hand. A river rock kicked up by an 18-wheeler plumented into her left rear window with the force of a meteorite. A vandal ripped off her left "GT" panel (unfortunately for the burglar the panel snapped in half as he was prying it off, "Ha! Ha! Sucka! Now so valuble now!") But the fatal accident came on 10-19-01 when in a parking garage she was tragically struck down on her passenger side by a BMW. She struggled for weeks, still drivable, but noticing that she was now markedly different. "Mommy," she would say to me, "How come all the other Probes have functional use of their doors? How come I have duct tape sealing in the gap made in the door by my buckled frame?" I couldn't stand to see her so upset and confused with her child-like innocence. She had to be totalled. I teared up as I emptyed her out. I remembered the time in Fresno when I dropped my keys on the ground right in front of her only to hear afterwards from a nearby shop owner that someone have picked them up and contemplated driving my baby away. The shop owner intervened and took the keys from the would-be auto thief. I fondly recalled the many trips on the rolling streets of San Francisco, the daytime jaunts to ... Oh my God! I had lumbar cushions and I didn't even know it! A couple days later the insurance company came and picked her up. They didn't even give her the dignity of driving her away. Instead they loaded her onto a truck and hauled her to the dump like garbage. I try not to think of her fate, probably to be raped of her parts then crushed in agony by some heartless junkyard type with three days of stubble and bad BO. But I try not the think about that. Everytime I see a Probe, my eyes well up a bit, thinking of my old friend, the most beautiful car I've ever owned. So this is my ode to you, Roxie. Rest in peace, gal. I know heaven is a freshly-paved, winding, seaside road, like the ones in those car comercials. |