Pure red with a rotary engine and a souped-up sound system.
We met when we were both nearly 18 years old, both full of potential and believing in the illusion of 160mph. I had spotted the sexy trapezoid while riding shotgun on the way to school and made a point to check it out whenever we drove by. It was parked at an angle in the sellers’ front yard on top of a mound of dirt. It looked like the winner of a kick-ass game of King of the Hill and I wouldn’t stop talking about it.
Realistically, I always planned on buying a first car that was reliable; no frills. Being a zealot of function over fashion, the idea of freedom alone made me content to own any vehicle with four wheels and a good engine. Still, the day I saw $3,000 in white marker on the window I got excited. I had been faithfully saving nearly every check from my job as a Sandwich Artist since I was 15 years old. I knew I had at least $2,000 saved.
It always made me feel powerful when I knew I could afford something. It didn’t matter if I actually bought anything. Knowing I had the option was what mattered. I would be flooded with dopamine browsing the aisles at Dollar Tree, knowing I could buy anything in the entire store. So when I saw a fancy sports car was nearly in reach, I tried to curtail my fantasies. As the daughter of a mechanic, I knew a price that low meant the car needed work of some kind.
As weeks went by with the car still mounted, I became more certain something major was wrong with it. It would have been scooped up already otherwise. Still, I would make sure to get a good look at every opportunity. One day, after a long hard day of sandwich artistry (cutting tomatoes and counting out napkins), my mechanic father surprised me by pulling off the road on the way home. He said he was curious to see why it hadn’t sold.
The seller came right out to meet us, keys in hand. His college aged son was an idiot, according to the seller, which is why it was for sale. The Idiot Son spent all his money on a fast car and subwoofers. But now Idiot Son lived back at home. Idiot Son got caught drag racing. The money from selling the car would go towards Idiot Sons’ heap of legal fees. Also, potentially related, the transmission might need work.
The interior was matching red and black and the cd player held five discs at once. I could see all the speakers through the wrap around back window, which had its own windshield wiper. My mechanic father wisely reserved judgement until after he put the key in the ignition. The car roared to life. Slowly, magic trap door headlights emerged. They lined up perfectly with the curved edge of the hood, creating an adorable smiley face.
I nodded politely when the hood was opened. We were told how old various bits inside the car were and in what condition. I leaned out of the conversation and peaked inside the open door. Red stripes ran down the sides of the black seat covers which matched the black and red floor mats, gear shifter, and even the sun visor CD case. I pressed the power button on the shiny stereo, which was blaring Korn at a deafening volume. Pushing the button again I giggled noticing even the stereo buttons had a red glow behind them. Oh, Idiot Son.
Technically there was a back seat, and a small trunk with a spare tire and jack packed nicely under a false bottom. The back window doubled as the trunk door which revealed large speakers. Black and red speakers, naturally.
All In all, the car was flashy and impractical. But also I squealed remembering how the headlights materialized from thin air on the way home. Now I would wave to the passing car on our daily commutes, imagining how mad Idiot Son would be should he see me drive past in his old car, blasting Spice Girls out of the color coordinated speakers.
A few weeks later, both parents picked me up for work and again pulled over to visit the magnificent Mazda. The seller tossed the keys to my father. He was smiling and waving enthusiastically. My father told me to jump in the passenger seat, and without discussion my mother returned to our minivan. She was smiling as well. We were pulling onto the farm road we lived on before I asked how long of a test drive we were allowed. The car was going but it was clunky and “seeing how fast it can go” seemed like a bad idea to me. But I’m no mechanic.
My father answered with facts about rotary engines and how they were different from the regular pistons. He praised Mazda for owning the exclusive rights to produce cars with rotary engines and how if it weren’t for those rights, every manufacturer would make cars with the superior rotary engines. I nodded and was paying attention, but I didn’t know what a piston was. I tried to visualize the mechanics as my father continued. I gave up and instead pictured a hamster on a wheel every time my father said rotary engine. It made the remainder of this mechanics ted talk much more exciting.
We pulled into our driveway with our family minivan parked right behind. At this point I was pretty sure I was now an accomplice of grand theft auto. My parents stood waiting for me to get out. My siblings ran over to see the red car. I bent low to prevent bumping my head, and as I turned to close the door, keys hit me in the face. That gave the family a big laugh. By the time I picked them up my father could finally get out the words “It’s yours, dumbass!”
“The car?” I asked. “You guys bought me a car?”
“No, YOU bought you a car. Your mother took the money out of your account to cover it. Needs a little work, but once you have money for insurance and some repairs, you’ll be good.”
I was confused but understood this was now my vehicle, at least. “Can I go out and drive it?”
“No, it needs some work first but it’s nothing I can’t fix here at home.”
I answered their expectant stares with a “Thank you,” but I was still confused how this all came to be and processing the fact my bank account was now empty. That was a lot of hours of sandwich artistry. I imagined my bank statement, which I looked forward to seeing increase week after week, now at zero and felt panicked.
“You don’t sound very grateful for someone who just got their first car.”
“I am! Thank you! It’s a beautiful car! Let me show you kids how cool the lights are!” I slid the key in the ignition and turned until the lights levitated to their upright position, much to our delight. I was grateful. I did love this sporty drag racer, the same age as me, and I was grateful my family wanted to surprise me. I felt stupid. My safety net was spent and now I had nothing, after working for so long.
“It was all for a car anyway!” I told my brain. That is why I had been saving. I didn’t know what to do with these thoughts so I shoved them away and named my new car.
Mia. Spanish for Mine.
Mia ended up sitting in that same spot for maybe a year. I used it as a quiet place to read and dreamt of the cross-country road trip we would take once I could drive it. I would wash the bird poop and tree pollen off only for it to sit and accumulate more. I didn’t care. I loved that car. It was mine.
During that year, some family situations occurred that resulted in me moving out. The day Mia and I left, I loaded the trunk and back seat with as much as it could hold. That being my book bag, my purse with an exorbitant number of keychains attached to the handle, my work clothes and work shoes, and a few shirts. That was all that would fit. I put the key in the ignition and for the first time, put it in drive.
I was headed to my friend’s house, maybe 3 miles away. She was driving ahead of me in her car and behind me another friend followed. I felt powerful turning Mia onto the road for the very first time. Our inaugural drive together. A new life chapter. It was all so poetic. My adrenaline was rushing. My fingers were shaking. My feet were hot. That’s odd, I thought.
Moments later I saw the flames. Mia was on fire. The friend following me began to honk and wave out the window for me to pull over. We were only halfway to our destination, and on a back farm road with no shoulder.
The corn fields grew strong that year. They were planted all the way up to the edge, heavy stalks in arms reach. They were Mr. Wellings corn fields, and if my car caught them on fire, they would spread over nearly half his crop. He’d kill me if the car didn’t.
I drove faster. Close behind my frantic escort continued signaling for me to stop the car. I pulled my heel off the pedal to see if my flip flop was melting. It wasn’t. Some good news. I used this as an indicator I still had time and continued driving.
Finally, I pulled up the driveway. I shut off the engine and opened the door. Flames were coming from underneath the floorboards. I summoned every ounce of Vin Diesel and jumped dramatically out of the car. The three of us stood staring at the car without a word.
“You can’t use water, right?” I don’t remember who said it, but it sounded right. We were coming up blank on alternatives, until we spot a fire extinguisher inside the open garage. The fire was out in moments.
We were saved, but the car didn’t look great. I soon after signed my Mia over to Kars 4 Kids. Without the means to fix her, it seemed like the best option at the time. Because they would tow her away for free.
I was angry with myself after learning it was my fault Mia ended up extra crispy. I didn’t know when a car sits for a long time it needs its fluids changed before driving. Even three miles. Or else it could catch fire. Possibly on a back farm road with no shoulder. During corn season.
Mia, you were a good first car. Idiot Son and Idiot Me did you wrong,
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