Poor Phoebe: Or, My Car Doesn't Deserve the Abuse Heaped upon Her

Anyone who has ever spent more than five minutes with me has probably heard me complain about my poor car, Phoebe.

She's a tiny little Honda Fit, the kind that looks like a clown car when my 6'2” body folds itself out of the driver's seat, the kind that shakes like she's ready for liftoff when she hits any speed over 70mph, the kind that is perfect for city driving due to the fact that she's so small she can fit into spaces that aren't really supposed to be spaces while defying physics to carry two bookshelves, four chairs, and a table from Ikea in her trunk. She was the first car I ever purchased all on my own, previously used only by a sweet old lady who took great care of her. She's my not-quite-pride and not-quite-joy, my peppy little city sidekick.

She's been through a lot in the last five years in my care

She doesn't deserve the abuse that has befallen her.

This is her story.

* * *

It's September, 2014.

I'm living in Chicago in a (somewhat) shady part of town with my best friends. We're jam-packed like sardines in an apartment, and I often retreat to Phoebe to have any phone conversations when one of my many roommates in nursing school are inevitably asleep, prepping for shifts.

I'm talking one night to my sister, Phoebe's seat back, my feet on the dash, not paying attention to what's going on in the world outside Phoebe's four doors. I nearly have a heart attack when I hear a knock on my window, shrieking as I throw my phone to the ground and shakily roll down my window to face an innocent-looking old lady walking her dog.

She calls me honey, tells me she lives in the neighborhood and also drive a Honda Fit. I stare at her blakly, trying to piece together why she felt the need to interrupt my conversation to inform me of facts I don't particularly care to know. When I don't answer, she further elucidates that some good-for-nothing-hoodlums recently tried to steal her tires, and the policeman she called let her know that the tires of any Honda Fits made before 2010 are apparently hot commodities due to some expensive metals in the sensors and hubcaps that can be sold for cash. She tells me I might consider investing in some locking lug nuts, telling me to be careful as I roll up my window and tell my sister of eccentric neighbors intruding on private conversations.

* * *

It's March, 2016.

In the year and a half since you've last heard from her, Phoebe's been through some minor scrapes. Rogue rocks on the highway shattering her windshield twice in one month. City car hit and runs. A run-in with a snowplow. Inevitable dents and scratches and dinks arising from the fact that I don't have a garage and am parking her on the mean city streets of Chicago. She might look like she's Lived Some Life, but she's chugging along like a champion and I have no complaints.

I'd just touched down at O'Hare airport from a work trip and switched my phone off airplane mode. I scroll through my texts absentmindedly, pausing when I see one from my roommate.

Don't freak, it reads, but someone hit Phoebe.

I don't freak. She's not in the best shape, and I'd already saved up enough money for a new car just in case. Her death was inevitable. It'll be ok.

I get home, expecting the worse, and laugh when I see her in her normal spot, parked outside of our building. Some idiot in a truck clearly misjudged the width of our street and has scratched her, tip to tail, taking out my side mirror along the way. The mirror is nowhere to be found, and Phoebe has a nice lil racing stripe across the entire driver's side.

I get the mirror fixed. I don't pay to have her repainted. What's one more scratch to add to her other battle wounds?

* * *

It's November, 2016.

I've been traveling internationally for work about once a month these days, and it's starting to take a toll. I'd just touched down from yet another trip to Singapore and am unbelievably jet lagged, uncomfortably greasy, and almost unbearably looking forward to getting home and getting right in the shower. I dash up the stairs to my apartment, throw my things in a pile, and sprint to the bathroom, pausing with a sinking heart as I realize I forgot to get shampoo before I left for my trip.

I scream in frustration (and exhaustion), grab my keys, and run out to the street to Phoebe, where she's been parked for two weeks. I throw her into drive and tap the gas, when the most ungodly groaning sound I've ever heard stops me in my tracks. The gates of hell have nothing on Phoebe. Something is most definitely wrong.

I turn her off and jump out, yelping as I look at her tires. The front right tire is jutting out a completely incorrect angle. The back left is nearly off. The back right is holding on for dear life by the (surprising) strength of a single lug nut. Someone, or someones, were very clearly in the process of stealing my tires when something—a policeman? a guilty conscience? a friendly neighbor?—interrupted them.

I sit down on the curb and cradle my head in my hands, trying to think through my jet-lagged stupor. I don't have tools, I certainly don't have lugnuts, and I certainly don't have any mechanical know-how...but I do live near an AutoZone. Surely they can help.

AutoZone sells me 11 new lugnuts and asks me if I'd like to buy some locking lugnuts while I'm at it. Apparently tire stealing is really common with Honda Fits made before 2010. I tell them thanks, but no thanks, I'm on a budget. I'll be ok.

I head back to my car and realize right away that they sold me the incorrect size lugnut. They're out of the kind I need. They think they could have some in three days.

THREE DAYS?! I scream at the cashier, starting to cry. MY CAR IS CURRENTLY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET!

There's nothing he can do to help me. I head back to my car and sit on the curb again, starting to cry.

A man who very much resembles Santa Claus, but in denim overalls, stops and asks me if I'm ok. I tell him I'm decidedly NOT ok, thank you, because I haven't slept in over 24 hours and I still need shampoo and some horrible people have tried to steal my tires and I am a silly woman who has no idea how to fix a car and isn't entirely sure what a lugnut even is, let alone how to secure them to my wheels. I'm blubbering like a crazy person. I can't bring myself to care.

Woah there, he tells me. It'll be ok. It's actually my lucky day, because he used to be a mechanic and I remind him of his daughter and he's sure he can help me. In fact, let's start by looking in the leaves nearby for the lugnuts, because these yahoos usually don't take them with em when they steal tires. They probably threw em aside.

I watch in awe as he shuffles through the leaves and finds lugnut after lugnut, discarded by the thieves before they were scared off. He finds all eleven. I'm starting to think he might be magic.

Now, he tells me, some tools. He bets I might have more tools hiding in my car than I think I do, and I tell him I bet he's wrong. He opens my trunk and magically pulls out no less than three wrenches and a car jack that were definitely not there before. These will do the trick, he tells me. We'll be done in no time. My jaw is on the floor. I'm starting to think he might actually be Santa.

He resecures my tires in ten minutes, asks me if anyone has ever taught me how to change a tire, scoffs when I tell him no, and spends twenty minutes coaching me through how I would fix a flat in the future. He replaces the tools as I stare at him in awe. I ask him if he lives nearby and if I can bring him some banana bread. He laughs and says, no, he's just visiting a friend who lives in the area, he isn't actually from around here, he just wanted to help.

I give him a hug, thank him for everything, and never see him again.

He's for sure my Santa Angel.

* * *

It's a Thursday in February, 2017.

In the past two weeks, my life has started changing in ways I wasn't prepared for. In that short time, a major book company that also runs the internet reached out to me out of nowhere, coordinated a couple of quick calls I didn't realize were formal interviews, and that past Monday flew me out to visit a city I'd never before visited. I'd returned home yesterday, Wednesday, and had a job offer waiting on my voicemail when my plane touched down. They want me to start in three weeks. I'm at my emotional wit's end trying to catch up to myself and figure out if, of all things, I might need to quit my job and start selling everything I own and figure out how to get myself across the country. Like, to live. Indefinitely.

On top of all of that, my church has hit a snag. They've called a small council of leaders to discuss at 5am before work on Thursday morning. I'm a lot undercaffeinated and a little weepy as I sleepily stagger out of my apartment to Phoebe, who has been parked on the street while I was away in the city that may end up as my new home. I hop into the driver's seat, wondering to myself how I could even consider moving away at a time that the church I love needs my help, turn the key, wonder for a second if Phoebe could even survive a cross-country drive, and throw her in reverse.

We don't move anywhere.

I check the engine light. Totally fine. The gear shift? Nothing out of the ordinary...

...it hits me.

My tires.

As in, they're gone.

I jump out of the car and all of a sudden am noticing that yes, in fact, I do feel a little lower to the ground and, oh, what do you know, there was a strange groaning noise when I got into the car. Phoebe squeaks as I stand on the curb staring at her, mouth agape, as she settles into what appear to be milk crates holding her small frame off of the ground. Her tires are nowhere to be found.

I had not heeded the warnings of Neighbor Lady and Santa Angel. I'd been given two chances to get myself locking lugnuts. And I, idiot that I am, defiantly ignored the signs and invited an inevitable tragedy onto my poor, sweet, tireless Phoebe.

* * *

Flash forward a few hours later.

I'm sitting in the front street of the second AAA tow truck of the day, Phoebe cradled on spare tires in the truck bed behind me. Why second, you ask? Well. First AAA tow truck of the day was quite distracted in traffic on I-95 by me, the young lady riding shotgun in his truck, and rear-ended the car in front of us in juuuust the right way to render his truck undrivable. He had to call AAA on himself (AAA-squared?) (meta) and an older, wiser, less-red-blooded driver is driving us both back to the garage.

As I explain to the garage attendant what's happened, I also make sure he is aware that this car has seen a lot of life, I'm waiting for her to die, and I'm not particularly interested in spending more than the absolute bare minimum on her repairs. Are there, I ask, such things as bare minimum tires?

He laughs, asks me if I'm interested in hubcaps.

I ask him if I need them. He thinks about it and determines well, you know, not really...?

I decline the hubcaps.

A few hours later, I'm driving away in a car that has two cheap, hub-capped tires on the front, and two, cheaper, hub-capless wheels on the back. She's reached new levels of janky. I can't really bring myself to care, a new worry clawing at the back of my neck. In the hours I spent sitting in the AAA garage, I've somehow hit on a decision I'd been dreading for two weeks: Phoebe and I will be driving to the West Coast in a matter of days.

* * *

It's May, 2017.

Phoebe survived the long cross-country trek, hauling me, my father, and all my earthly possessions with nary a problem. I half-expected her to die in the Grand Tetons. She's still chugging along, mis-matched tires and all, and seems like she's still got some life in her.

I'd started my job working for the book store that also runs the internet. I found an apartment. I moved my two suitcases in. My mom is in town to help me find necessities like a bed so I can stop sleeping on an air mattress.

Now that I had a permanent address, I'd registered Phoebe to my new state and, in utter betrayal to Illinois, my home home for the last quarter century, swapped my plates. I'll be the first to tell you I'm not particularly handy, so my mother kindly offered to help me swap out Phoebe's old plates for these newer models.

Snag: the wind and rain and snow and sleet of the Chicago streets had unknowingly rusted the screws securing my plates straight through. They crumbled in our hands, leaving us without anything to secure my new plates to Phoebe. My mom and I turned to each other and determined there was but one solution. Duct tape. Back window.

* * *

Three weeks later, I'm at the garage, trying to figure out how much it will cost me to weld new screws to my trunk to hold up my plates. A lot, it turns out. More than what I suspect the car is worth. I politely decline, remove the duct tape, and shove the plate in the narrow space between the brake light and the back windshield. Works for me, apparently works for the Seattle cops. It's been a year, and I've never been pulled over. Who needs outside license plates, anyway?

* * *

It's June, 2018.

In year since her last debacle, Phoebe still hasn't died. I've betrayed her somewhat, test-driving new cars alongside a much more responsible human who seems to think Phoebe (shudder) may warrant replacing. I'm wooed enough by these swanky, license-plated, dent-less, matchy-tired vehicles to determine I'm putting ZERO MORE DOLLARS into Phoebe. Particularly because an insurance agent recently informed me she is worth roughly $1,000. Next issue, she's outta here.

I walk up to my car after leaving a store, and I stop in my tracks, groaning.

Her back window is completely shattered. The backpack and gym bag I had in the back are nowhere to be found.

Two police reports, one garbage bag, and four strips of duct tape (sense a theme here?) later, I'm calling window repairmen for quotes to get her fixed. I'm determined to spend less than $100, or I'm trashing this vehicle, because even I can admit it's prooooobably just about time. I find a guy who offers to do it for $75, and we set a repair date for four days later, meaning Phoebe will live to see another battered and bruised day under my (very poor) care.

I drive around with a garbage bag over my window for the next few days, incurring many snickers from passersby when they notice the combination of lack of license plate, mismatched tires, racing stripe, and countless dents. The security guard at my office garage giggles when I ask her to badge me into my building, telling me the rest of the security team has been using Phoebe as a running joke about which poor intern wasn't getting paid enough by the executives parked nearby in their Teslas and Beemers and Mustangs. I'm glad to entertain them, but admittedly embarassed. I'm supposed to be an adult. I have my own intern, for crying out loud.

Dude shows up to fix her and...charges me $300?! Because apparently there were other parts needed?! And labor?! And special glass he wasn't anticipating?! I grit my teeth and fork over the cash, nostalgic for my beloved, beaten, battered car, but determined to offload her and scrap her for parts the next time anything is wrong.

I may be Dutch, I may be thrifty, and I may be sentimental, but even I can admit defeat. Poor Phoebe, my faithful friend. You don't deserve the likes of me.