A Moment of Silence

I knew coming into April that April was going to suck. It has. Royally.

On Monday I lost one of my closest friends, a friend who I'd spent literally 4 or 5 hours with a day at least a few times a week. Rarely would I not spend at least an hour a day with this wonderful friend. My beloved white 97' Ford Escort is no more.

I didn't treat it right. I wasn't as kind to it as I should've been. It had a rough existence, just like everything that is close to me, it was used, abused, thoroughly beaten, but loved. I should've cleaned it more, lots more. I should've taken it in for maintenance quicker, for the last two months it had a tire that had to be filled up every week because of a "slow" leak. It had a dent that was never dealt with. It was in serious need of a car wash, serious need. The windshield had been cracked for the better part of a decade, it had leaks in multiple places (I'd laugh and swear as it rained on me while I drove), it liked to pull to the right, just a little, the windows were manual, and the number of times I had to tell people to lock their door as they got out I can't count. Who besides me has...had...manual locks? And manual windows? The drivers side door would freeze shut on and off all winter, usually just the lock, but at least a few times every winter I'd be cursing as I climbed over the passenger's seat to get in, and sometimes out.

It always got me where I was going, reliably, until Monday. I was pissed when it busted. I was supposed to be having a picnic with a friend of mine. An event that would probably have been the highlight of my week. Instead I was sitting on the trunk of my car in a community college parking lot, which I had mistakenly gone to because I screwed up where my shoot was at. Sitting on the trunk, waiting for a tow truck, thinking the fuel pump was busted. I was annoyed. I was supposed to be having a picnic. It was over 70 and sunny. It was going to be such a good day.

I had, by some weird quirk of chance left my bike in the trunk of my car. At least getting home from the mechanic's was going to be easy. A little before 4pm I got the call. I don't cry. I just don't. It's not good, it's not bad, it's just me. But I couldn't handle that one. I only had a few minutes before I had to get running to my next shoot, but I shed a few for my Ford. The engine needed to be rebuilt, and, well, it's a 97' Ford Escort. The work was more than buying a new one. Nothing but dumb bad luck. Something involving the 4th piston and a lot of words I don't quite get. Nothing I could've done. I can't even feel guilty that it was somehow "my fault", it wasn't. It was just gone. It had seen it's last trip.

137,000 miles, 90,000 of those with me.

It was my first car, my only car to date. I need to get a new one, this week or next. But I'm going to miss my white 97' Ford Escort, affectionately known in my own head as the "411".

You'll always have a place in my heart.