When the head gasket bursts and the coolant is flooded with oil and the hood starts smoking, I pull over on the 205. I am from California so I say “the 205” instead of “I-205” or “Freeway 205” or whatever other people here refer to it as. I am in the shoulder and the car shakes at the whooshing beside me. You’d think I’d be worried, but I turn off my car and just wait for the engine to cool; Google says it’ll be 30 minutes. It’s happened before. I know this will cost me thousands of dollars I don’t have and I know my mother was right about me inevitably getting into credit card debt because instead of saving every last dollar of my paycheck, I give gifts on un-birthdays and tip the baristas too much and drive my car aimlessly through the city streets after laughing with my best friend on his couch. When he walks me out and we say goodnight, I drive with the windows down, music loud, and gas expense much more than it needs to be because I am the happiest I’ve ever been and I just don’t want to sleep yet. Also, I don’t know how much to tip the gas station attendant, because I’m not from here.
My Subaru Impreza is named Winona Ryder, and I think I am clever. I love her like a pet, like a kid, like a home. I pack her with CDs and dress her up with stickers. She took me to Portland nearly four years ago, but still has her California plates. When I take her to the shop, I know I get ripped off, even when I wear a flannel. I miss her when I say goodbye and hurt a little extra when my boss I asked for an advance on my paycheck from says that “cars are the fucking worst.” Winona absorbs nails and loses tire valve caps and melts my favorite cup holder chapstick, and I shell out the cash to replace what she’s lost because I love her and I need her. The dealer suggests a trade-in may be the wiser investment, but I don’t consider the betrayal. We take the upcharged surgery.
For days when people ask how I am, I talk about Winona and make it everyone else’s problem. Apparently everybody beside me knew that the head gasket is a common weakness of Subarus. So I take that information and bitterly stuff it into my tote bag and toss it on the passenger seat of my rental car. The sun visor is a stiff plastic instead of squishy fabric, so my garage clicker doesn’t securely clip onto it and I have to keep it in the center console. I hate it.
When the contracts are signed, she returns to me with the sterile, masculine scent of new car. I open her up, let her breathe, and with time she’ll smell like sweet almond milk iced coffee, Glossier perfume, aloe hand sanitizer, eucalyptus lotion, dried lavender, and rain water. I’ll drop crumbs and pens and bobby pins between the seats. I’ll carpool with my friends who I love so dearly and constantly check in to see if they’re okay with the temperature and airflow I’ve set. After sitting with them in front of their apartments for a very long time, I let them go, then drive myself home, ignoring for a moment the empty gas tank and low tire pressure lights that both decided to flash as I turned onto the 205.
