Gracie - April, 2007

I know I’m not alone in this. We’ve all heard of people who treat their pets like family (and sometimes better, but that’s another story). There are those folks prone to talking to their plants (“Hello, Fern. How was your day?”). Yet others find themselves giving human characteristics to inanimate objects (think Tom Hanks and Wilson, the volleyball, in “Castaway.”) In my case, it’s Gracie, my 10-year old Mercedes E320.

Named after Grace Slick, Gracie was admittedly a mid-life crisis purchase (if you consider I was 46 at the time, I guess that means I expect to live for a looooong time). Almost immediately, she seemed to assert a bit of an attitude. You know, the “I’m a Mercedes and you aren’t” kind of look. She was cool, and she was smug. She wore her Mercedes hood ornament with pride, unimpressed by proliferating Hummers, Lexuses and bulky SUVs.

Now middle-aged herself, Gracie doesn’t get out as much as she used to, and, like her owner, she’s showing some signs of age (God, I hope she can’t read this…). Her tape player doesn’t work anymore, but who uses cassettes anyway? She began to retain water a few years ago if I drove her in the rain, which meant we had something in common. Her cup holder – rarely used since I don’t drink coffee – mysteriously broke, and she got a cleft in her chin from the trailer hitch of the car ahead of her that backed up without warning. She somehow attracted a rock, which had to have been from a meteor, on the New Jersey Turnpike, so she has a flaw in her windshield. We have even more in common these days: We both have a few leaks and need some cosmetic work.

The 2004 addition of little sister Sunny Sebring, a convertible, kind of took the wind out of Gracie’s sails. I could see her sneer at her similar but not quite the same silver-colored partner in the now crowded garage. Gracie, the queen of the castle, was put in the role of workhorse. She became the “family car,” the one with the bigger trunk, so she would be asked to haul top soil and mulch in the spring.

The other night, after a long “rest,” Gracie asserted herself again. With Sunny Sebring out for service, Gracie refused to leave the garage. “Ignore me?” she virtually hissed, as she adamantly would not turn over, like her owner on a rainy day. The Mercedes doctor made a house call the next day and replaced her battery with a real Mercedes battery, not the “after-market” version I had compromised on out of necessity the last time around. The next day she went for the dreaded NJ State Inspection, a chance to validate her worth. Imagine her dismay when the inspector slapped a bright pink “Rejected” sticker on her. Her gas cap is too old, he said, and her emissions are, well, let’s just say they are unacceptable. Such ignominy for the old girl. I swear she gave me the same look that cat owners get when they come home late and find a treasured vase broken on the floor, the cat standing defiantly nearby.

So, it’s all my fault. I know. I understand, I told her, and promised not to let her go so long next time without the TLC she deserves. We’re both getting older, not better. She hasn’t turned 100 (thousand miles) yet, and we still have more adventures to share and miles to go before we sleep.

Just don’t tell me she’s only a car, OK?