Requiem for a Station Car

A few months ago, I was running late to the train station. This is not unusual. What was unusual was the sheer volume of cars passing on Jerusalem Avenue. This isn't a major thoroughfare, just a moderate two lane road cutting though my suburban town. Yet the cars kept coming.

My car is a 1996 Jetta. It was not built for speed. Judging by the oddly colored seat cover prints, featuring stick figures engaged in athletic pursuits over splashes of color, it looks like it was built for a questionably gendered female gym teacher.

It was not built for speed.
However I was not built to miss the 8:57 train.

There I sat, peeking out onto Jerusalem Avenue. I have to cross over one lane of traffic, and make left in the flow of traffic when there is an opening. There is no median. This is the most time consuming part of my morning drive. This unavoidable turn. The clock is ticking.
There is no opening. The clock is ticking. There is no opening.
Then? A slight window.. and i gunned it. The ol' Pedal to the Medal. Floored it. Pinned it. Cranked it. Whatever "it" is, I did it. Whatever it is, the car didn't. It didn't move. It made a sound, a "HoOOooVE!". It made the sound of an old man getting up from a low sofa. It hesitated, then sent us sputtering into fast approaching two way traffic.

It was not a good start to the morning.



Many cars approaching quickly in both directions... white knuckled, wide eyed I coaxed that car to please please please move.. and it did. Finished my left and got up to speed. Sure, other cars slowed down, but not egregiously so, and we steadily made it up to speed and over to the traffic light without further incidence.



And then it happened.

The engine light went on.

Now, this car had been through a lot. Back and forth across the country. Up and down both coasts numerous times. It daily battled the feared 405 in Los Angeles, it faced the dreaded BQE in Brooklyn. It lost it's roof racks on a cold dark night on the I-40 hours outside of Santa Fe. It drove down Lombard Street and dodged Trolleys in San Francisco. It ran fireworks north from South of the Border. It never lost heart as it approached overheating in the deserts of Arizona. It bombed through the canyons of Manhattan. Lived in the alleys of Hoboken. It churned up snow and slush but didn't quit while driving up frozen inclines in Vermont.


And the engine light never went on.


This was something different. A trip to out trusty local mechanic confirmed a sad fact; that engine light would never be going off. When it does? That is the end.

The Jetta sits at over 120,000 miles. Some easy, some hard. Some picked up in great chunks. Some hard fought on the traffic clogged arteries in the two largest cities in this country. We were a team, the Jetta and I.
Station car duty?
This was the retirement. After years of hard work, the Jetta was put on Station Car duty.
A cushy gig. Up in the morning, but not before 8. Less than ten miles of travel a week. Only two rides a day.
The Jetta was the prototypical "veteran cop", talking about the boat it is going to enjoy in retirement.

It never had a chance.
It was never getting on that boat.


The mechanic gave his verdict... the Jetta would be lucky to make it through the Winter.
This was in January.

Still, beyond reason the Jetta started every morning these past few months. Slowly we'd make our way down the avenue, and patiently, very patiently we'd waits for an opening on Jerusalem. Gently we strain at the opening and we head to the railroad station. Winter turned to Spring, and for four months the car started. Always with slight hesitation the engine light popped on to greet us in the morning. An undeniable reminder of the scythe above, but the car still started, and we still got the station.


This Thursday was no different. It was raining out hard. The car started. We slowly transverse the way down the avenue to our turn, the Jetta and I. Driving slowly it was always best to drive without the wipers. Using the wipers on minimal amounts of rain would only cause streaking across the windshield, clouding and marring the field of vision. Driving slowly, the rain was like an amorphous translucent liquid glass. Not crystal clarity, but just slightly obstructed.
Taking caution we waited at the stop sign at the junction with Jerusalem Avenue.
The rain came down, we waited.
The rain came down harder. The cars moved slower, leaving less openings. The slowed pace confounded the opposing lights that worked as sentinels up and down this stretch of Jerusalem Avenue. Openings were scarce as the slackened flow of traffic slogged together.
The rain came down harder still. An opening came, I pressed on the gas, I hit the wipers.

The car moved.
The wipers didn't.

Quickly I could not see a thing. The windshield was overrun with waves of rain as I accelerated into the turn. It was at this time I also realized that I didn't pull away from my parking spot without turning the wipers on. That would be incredibly stupid.
It was raining, what idiot wouldn't turn the wipers on in the rain?
I was not that idiot.

What idiot would turn the wipers on but not realize they haven't moved?
The one that just blindly squealed out into oncoming traffic.

If it is raining out I automatically turn the lights on and then bump the wipers control up on the steering column. That is a given. I turned it on.
The wipers just didn't move. I switched them on as reflex, and it escaped my notice that the wipers didn't move. When I noticed the wipers sitting the early part of the drive out, I somehow convinced myself that I didn't turn them wipers on at all.

And now? I was speeding into the heavy morning rain, dark skies, without seeing anything.
What I did see was the engine light. Still glowing.
Nowhere to pull over. No real options. Train coming, clock ticking. Stop light ahead. Red. I could turn on red, but I'll pass thank you.
Note “I'll pass”. Not "we'll pass".
There was no longer a 'we' with this car and I. No longer a team.
After all those miles, a vicious betrayal.

As I waited at the red light, I had a few moments to gather myself.
Quick assessment:
Car? Not my friend.
Wipers? Not working.
Rain? Not stopping.
Windshield? Not clear.
Train? Still scheduled for 8:57.

I was convinced that turning around and going home would be equally difficult. Equal in peril, and I would miss my train. I am not made to miss the 8:57 train. However, not having the ability to see out the windshield presented some certain challenges to my morning drive. Namely, I couldn’t see anything in front of me as I motored along.
How would I clear this windshield?
Diving into my bag, I rifled around.
Huzzah!
A beaten, worn umbrella! All torn vinyl, and spikey metal spokes.
The window is rolled down. Left arm out the window. Umbrella in left hand. Furiously stretching out the window and clearing a small corner of the windshield. I forge ahead. The next turn puts me on the Seaford Oyster Bay Expressway. A major road, but it only would be for one exit. Arm out the window, umbrella wiping the windshield, accelerating into an unseen abyss.

One exit, eyes strained. Hoping, hoping, hoping.
The makeshift umbrella wiper was not a good option. The net result of my wiping was a very wet arm, and no increase in visibility. The car was going 50 miles per hour. There was very little wiping I could do. Feint hints of lights ahead of me, but not really sure what is ahead. This was an expressway in a rainstorm during rush hour with no windshield wipers.

This was a bad idea.

A car passed, and switched lanes in front of me. I saw the tail lights through the gloom. Follow them to the exit. Follow those tail lights wherever they go. While I couldn't see the exit, I would be able to see where the exit ramp is located. Unless the car ahead of me careened off the road.
Then I would just follow that car into the bramble.
"Oh, this wasn't the exit? My bad. Let me just back my car out of your yard."
That would not be an ideal situation.

My one hope at this point is that the car in front me had working wipers. If not, that would be quite unfortunate. At this time I could picture my son, years from now holding a yellowed newspaper as a keepsake of his father.
The headline? "Local Idiot Dies Like An Idiot".

At last, the exit. Slowly I crawled the Jetta on the shoulder of the road to the parking lot.
Parked in the first spot I saw.
Kissed my umbrella.
Walked towards the train.
The umbrella whipped back in the wind, striking me in the face.
Cursed the umbrella.

That night, I returned from work, walked off the train and went to my car.
The rain stopped. The car started. I made it home.
The next morning, the Jetta started. It didn't rain. I made it to the station.


In 1999 I bought this car from Donaldson's in Sayville, from a man with big teeth, a bearish stature, and a quick handshake. Overpaying and instantly disliking the salesmen in the transaction, the Jetta was at 46,000 miles.

Now the Jetta is at 120,000 miles, and it still has a few miles left.
Provided it doesn't rain.
If it does rain?

This is a Requiem for a Station Car.



The point of all this is, well, is anyone looking to sell an old car?
I only need it to drive to the train station.