My car is a 2019 Toyota CH-R, a limited edition vehicle, meaning they don’t make it anymore, with forty thousand miles so far. You would think the car would be worth a lot because they’ve discontinued manufacturing it, also because I hardly ever drive it, maybe twice a week, to see my parents, who live about eighteen miles from my apartment in Palm Springs. Most people commute in their vehicles, but I work from home, so I get to save money from those absurd gas prices. I love my car, even if I don’t drive it often.

The CH-R is so much better than my Hyundai Accent, the car I traded it in for. Sure, the Hyundai had a one-hundred-thousand mile warranty, and I never had to bring it to the shop, but damn, what an ugly car, all boxy, no Apple Carplay like my CH-R has, absolutely no gadgets to hang its hat on, just a basic car that got me to work and back when I had an office job. I can’t remember how long I’d driven that car. Those were forgettable years.

The car I had before the Hyundai was a Mazda 3. That thing could pick up speed like you wouldn’t believe up steep hills. But I drove it into the ground for my delivery job through the front half of the last decade. My ex-girlfriend said it looked like an owl, a silver owl. I had to drive that owl to the dealership too many times and spent thousands of dollars on repairs. The manager at the dealership wouldn’t do me any favors either. I complained to him once, and he claimed I was threatening him by saying that I wouldn’t come back. What a horrible visit. But waiting for them to repair that lemon was worse. Is there a more boring place to spend the day?

Before the Mazda, I drove a white Honda Civic after I graduated from college. That thing lasted almost eight years until the transmission slipped. I had to choose between a new car and a new transmission. I chose the Mazda. There were already over fifty thousand miles on the Honda. The value had dropped immensely, and the car was full of spilled drinks and cigarette ash.

But that car held a lot of memories. I remember all those nights driving drunk or high, things I shouldn’t have done. But I was young and stupid. Of course I would’ve done those things. I don’t do them anymore. I’m sober. That car held twice as many memories as any of the cars I’d owned after that or before it. I woke up one morning behind the wheel when I was about twenty-four years old, parked on the side of my parents’ house with a beefy bouncer asleep on the passenger side. I’d blacked out and forgotten how I’d gotten there or how the bouncer ended up in my car.

I won’t say that the Honda Civic was my favorite. It wasn’t my least favorite either. That medal goes to the bronze Buick my uncle gave me for free. That jalopy was from the eighties, and it already smelled like tobacco from the moment it was mine. This was back in 1995. A car had smashed its side from a hit-and-run, and so the whole driver’s side was totaled. I had to get in from the passenger side and crawl over the parking brake. I drove that car for three years, I want to say, before I switched to a used Honda CRX, a hatchback that most people probably don’t remember. I bought it for under a thousand dollars. That sounded like a great deal at the time until the car had stalled and lost its engine. I was stranded on a Los Angeles freeway. I know nothing about cars, so I couldn’t say I remember what the exact problem was. All I know is that I kept that car for under two years and didn’t have one for a while until I had the Civic.

Before the Buick, I drove my mother’s Honda Accord in my junior and senior years of high school. I had to drop her off at her office before I drove to school to avoid having to take the school bus. What a hassle to have to drive her to work, but it sure beat the alternative, which was to ride the school bus as a junior, or even worse, a senior, because only losers did that. Plus, without my mother’s Accord, I couldn’t drive to lunch with my friends. I would’ve had to continue eating cafeteria food like in my first two years of high school.

Cars saved me from a lot of trouble but also caused a lot of problems. They weren’t always convenient. I would tend to get nails in my tires. I don’t know why, but it seems to happen about twice a year while other people seem to never have that happen to them. But driving a jalopy is better than nothing at all. What’s worse than riding the city bus as far as transportation goes?