Farewell to a Friend ... and My Machismo

By Kevin Gibson
February 17, 2008

For nearly 10 years, I’d driven my trusty Jeep Wrangler. Day in, day out. He always seemed to start on the first try, and on the rare occasions when there were mechanical problems, well, they were usually minor ones.

But the truth is, 180,000 miles and that many years in the elements takes its toll. My Jeep is an old man now. A couple of weeks back he started to make a noise I’d not heard before. I took him in for a checkup and an oil change, and my mechanic told me, “I’d be worried about that engine noise.” So I was.

Less than a week later, while driving back to work from a lunch break, it happened. The engine noise grew momentarily louder, followed by a “chak-chak-chak-chak” and then “poom!” And I realized it was a death rattle. The head gasket, I would learn later, had blown, spilling anti-freeze into the engine. I was able to navigate the old man home, but there he has sat ever since.

You spend that much time with a vehicle, and it becomes your friend. In fact, it’s easy to forget just how much we depend on our vehicles, and not only for transportation: Your vehicle can say things about you. What my trusty 1997 Jeep said about me was that I am a bit of a slob. It also said that I’m very much an individual, with no time to be bothered with silly distractions like aesthetic beauty. Yes, one could say that my Jeep had gotten ugly in its advancing years. (Click here to see for yourself.)

But as Han Solo said about the Millennium Falcon, “She may not look like much, kid, but she’s got it where it counts.” And my Jeep certainly did.

That Jeep got me to Chicago on a number of occasions, and deftly made a number of other road trips over the years, from Nashville to St. Louis to Dayton, Ohio (don’t ask). On top of that, my dear, departed dog Toby loved that Jeep, and in a way it is my last tangible connection to him. (Read this for further explanation.)

But the time has come to move on. And in the meantime, I’ve been, well, getting by -- and realizing once again just how much that Jeep meant to me. Being dependent upon others for transportation is no way to live in America's heartland, especially when you are dating an artist.

You see, my significant other, Jen (aka Cricket), is a bit of an individual herself, and what her car says about her … well, it shouldn’t be saying about me when I’m driving it. But it does. It’s a 1986 Plymouth Reliant station wagon named Geraldine (yes, Jen names her cars) that is painted in wild colors and designs; it is what is known as an “Art Car.” That’s fine, but a guy with my rugged, masculine image (stop that laughing) looks out of place behind the wheel of that thing.

Car-shopping has been my focus since the Jeep retired from daily service, and I’ve noticed the strange stares I get when I pull into a car lot in Geraldine, or as I drive down the road or through parking lots trying in vain to look masculine. And what’s worse, I think it’s starting to affect me as well, as if the car is beginning to take over my personality.

On Valentine’s Day, I found myself wearing a dark button-down shirt that has tints of red in it. One of my male co-workers noted, “Ah, I see you wore red today like a lot of the women did.” Huh? No, really, I’m just at the end of a laundry cycle and this is what was still clean. I swear!

But then I thought, Hey, did I choose this shirt subconsciously? Has the loss of my manly Jeep and the time I’m spending with Geraldine changed me? Will I be painting my toenails next?

It gets worse. Later that day, I decided to walk down to a car lot near where I live to check out a Jeep Cherokee that Jen had seen for sale. So I decided to do two things at once and take my dog for a walk -- uh, my Lhasa apso. So I’m walking around, on Valentine’s Day, in a red goddamn shirt, and walking my fluffy little dust-mop of a lapdog on a retractable leash. All I needed was to put a red bow on his head and a bonnet on mine, and I’d officially be Kevin, the effeminate heterosexual.

What’s next? Appletinis in a disco, and dancing to Madonna?

So I did what any man would do in my situation. I bought an SUV and drank a whole lot of beer over the weekend. And I made sweet love to my woman. And I grunted and farted a lot, and didn’t shave. I even considered going bowling at one point -- anything that might make me sweat a lot. But the point is, I found my inner male once again, and I’m pleased to report he is alive and well and not watching "Dirty Dancing" anytime soon.

No offense to Geraldine or Valentine’s Day or femininity in general, but it’s good to have my balls back.

E-mail me a grunt at kgramone@aol.com.