Some words are not used much anymore. Terms like “davenport” or “icebox” or “virginity” seem antiquated in the modern world; similarly the word “jalopy” both as a word and as a concept has been banished from our lexicon.
But once upon a time owning a rusted out jalopy was a rite of passage for American teenagers, and so after I graduated from high school, when I needed good, reliable transportation to get me back and forth to college, I took my graduation cash and my meager savings and, with the couple of hundred bucks my mom threw in, I bought myself a used 1975 AMC Pacer. My Pacer was neither good nor reliable but it was transportation.
The Pacer was an ugly car even by 1970’s standards: resembling an upside-down goldfish bowl on wheels, it looked like something Dr. Seuss would have designed for a Who. Mine had almost 100,000 miles and a severe rust problem when I bought it. It did not have air conditioning, a radio or an automatic transmission.
One of the few times in my life that I prayed on a regular basis was when I would drive my Pacer anywhere, mainly because it would just stop running without warning, generally in the left lane of I-95 and at night; and in those days before cell phones it was a big deal if your car died, especially at night. Most journeys I would pray the entire time: “Oh please, dear God, don’t let it die.” “Merciful Jesus, keep this car going.” “Sweet Mary, pray for me!” You get the idea.
Besides dying on a regular basis the other memorable thing about the Pacer was the way that things would just disappear: once, with no warning, the side view mirror just fell off while I was driving and hubcaps would regularly roll away. There was the time when I closed the driver’s door and the window fell out; during a torrential rain the driver’s side windshield wiper got flung across two lanes of I-95. By the time I traded the Pacer in it was so rusted that there was a hole in the floor under the steering wheel; when the brakes failed, as they did often, I could have put my feet through the floor and used them to stop the car, Fred Flintstone style.
I shed no tears when I got rid of the Pacer and I confess that I didn’t spend much time lamenting that jalopy once it was gone, but lately I’ve been remembering that old rust bucket with a certain empathy.
It began when I was going through Security at the airport a couple of weeks ago. I bent down to untie my shoes and felt an immediate searing pain in my leg; I knew immediately that I had pulled a hamstring. Now I’m no stranger to hamstring injuries, but in the past these injures were the result of running or jumping or climbing — not removing a pair of shoes – and I limped off in a foul mood.
Several days later I was trying to get a can of soup down from a high shelf in the kitchen and I felt an odd little popping sensation in my shoulder — and I have not been able to lift my arm above shoulder height ever since. Then, just a couple of days ago I fell asleep on the floor, as I frequently do, using my big dog Ali as my pillow and I have been unable to straighten my neck or my back ever
This is clearly the start of an alarming trend and equally alarming, I am not getting sympathy from anyone, especially not my clients most of whom are well into their 70’s and 80’s.
“It gets worse,” said Edith.
“Wait 20 years,” said Franklin.
“Next it will be your prostate,” said Henry.
This is why I’m suddenly feeling an odd empathy for my old, overused Pacer that was falling apart before my very eyes. At the time I blamed the car but maybe itt wasn’t the cars fault after all. I’m truly afraid that given the principles of karmic retribution I’m totally screwed — and I keep obsessing over an unwelcome memory. My last look at the Pacer was after I had traded it in and a transport driver drove it away: It backfired loudly and the back bumper fell off.