Used Cars

We named her Hellen. That seemed to be the only appropriate name for the silver Nissan Sentra that had just found its new home in our driveway. WhAt Do YoU mEaN OnLy aPpRopRiaTe NaMe? WhY HeLLeN? Reader, you clearly don’t understand. If you saw Hellen, you too would have unequivocally said, oh yeah, she’s a Hellen.

Hellen arrived in our lives just in time for our parents to leave town for the weekend. My older brother, Caleb, and I would be spending the weekend with our friends Tim and Quin. I wasn’t driving Hellen. I was only 14. Caleb, however, was 16 and had his license beyond the six-month family-only restrictive period, so he was clear to drive friends, and the four of us spent as much time as possible in the car. We didn’t do a single thing that weekend unless Hellen was allowed to come too.

I’m pretty sure we went through the car wash on three separate occasions that weekend. The car was pretty clean when we got her, and it came out no cleaner after the second and third pass than when the car went in, but a carwash was so novel. We couldn’t go through the car wash before Hellen showed up, at least not without convincing mom to lend us the keys to her baby blue minivan. We were free to wash our car as we pleased.

When we weren’t washing the newly acquired hooptie (I assure you that’s a technical term for an automobile that the youths definitely use in 2022, and we definitely used that term in 2012, too), we were driving to WinCo to buy yogurt-covered pretzels in bulk, to Taco Bell to eat the groundbreaking new Doritos Locos Tacos, to the neighborhood gas station to fill up on gallons of Mountain Dew, to the city park to swing on swings and bask in the fact that were living in the good ol’ days.

The windows were always rolled down. This was mostly due to the fact that the Hellen’s air conditioning was broken, and October weather in Las Vegas, while beautiful, is still a little warm to go without air conditioning. The songs “I Knew You Were Trouble” by Taylor Swift, “Feel Again” by OneRepublic, and “The A Team” by Ed Sheeran played on repeat through the car’s fuzzy-sounding stereo; the previous owner had blown out at least one of the speakers.

Shiny yellow insulation sometimes sprayed out the air vents; I sometimes panic, unprovoked, about whether I may develop Mesothelioma as a result.

Hellen’s headlights were so clouded you had to use the high beams, even on city streets.

Hellen didn’t come with a key fob to operate the power-locking doors, so we learned quickly and the hard way not to touch the power lock buttons inside the car, or the next time the door was unlocked with the key, the car alarm would sound incessantly. We found the only way to stop the commotion was by opening the hood of the car, disconnecting the battery, waiting about 30 seconds for all systems to shut down, and reconnecting the battery.

Hellen was imperfect, but aren’t we all? What mattered is that she was perfect for us.

Well, she was perfect for us right up until she stopped being perfect for us.

After a few months, Hellen started leaking fluids. But like, all the fluids. Hellen never seemed to have enough wiper fluid. She leaked transmission fluid. She leaked oil. She leaked coolant, and started overheating if she was driven more than a couple miles. We noticed that Hellen was guzzling gas; we calculated the car was getting only about 5 miles per gallon.

My dad took the car into the shop and was informed that the cost of repairs far surpassed the value of the car. He immediately determined that instead of throwing his money into a pit, he as going to trade Hellen in for a new hooptie.

The fateful day came when it came time to say goodbye to Hellen. Caleb and I drove Hellen across town to the dealership where our dad had responded to an online ad for a used car.

Enter Florence.

Florence was deep blue and shiny. Florence had tinted windows and cruise control. Florence had a functional stereo, with an AUX cord, and functional air conditioning, free from shreds of fiberglass. Florence was a stick-shift. Florence was perfect. Not perfect in the way Hellen was perfect, but actually perfect.

Florence was my baby. Caleb drove Florence for about a year before he graduated high school and moved out, but most of that time, I also had a driver’s license and we shared Florence, even if it was more of an 80/20 split. But once Caleb had moved out, I had Florence all to myself for my junior and senior years of high school.

I kept Florence washed and vacuumed and rid of trash, though I never washed her thrice in one weekend. I even bought little scented trees to keep her smelling fresh.

I have many memories with Florence. Memories of school dances, parking lot parties, drives to orchestra rehearsals and swim practices. She and her four cylinders even won me a couple drag races (not like RuPaul) on a desert back road. Florence carried me to visit and harass friends at their high school jobs at sandwich shops and trampoline parks. She took me to my own job as a glorified staple remover at my dad’s law firm.

On one occasion, my friend Veronica begged me to let her drive my car. She got in the front seat, asked, “why are there three pedals?” and that was as far as Veronica drove my car. Veronica was valedictorian, so smart, so driven, so I found great pleasure in realizing there was something I knew that she didn’t.

By the way, V, it’s called a clutch.

I kept a bag of sidewalk chalk in the spare tire compartment so that, whenever the occasion presented itself, me and whatever hoodrats I happened to be doing hoodrat stuff with that night could vandalize our friends’ driveways. We usually wrote nice things. Usually.

One morning I was attempting to turn left onto a street congested with before-school traffic. There was a gap and I decided to shoot my shot. The gap between the cars was not as expansive as I had judged, and the teenager whose place in line was being compromised didn't help when he closed the gap even tighter. I found myself stuck sideways in the street. In reflecting on the experience, I realize I wasn't in danger, nor was I going to hurt anyone else. The road was just two lanes with all-but-stopped traffic in my lane, and sporadic cars driving in the opposite lane. I could've reversed a couple of feet and simply readjusted myself. That, however, is not what I did. I launched my car forward, up onto the curb, and scratched the bumper against a tree, which I had failed to see, towering in front of me. I yelled an expletive, realized my car was still operational, and drove the rest of the way to school. 

I assessed the damage when I got to the high school parking lot. The paint on the bumper was scratched and the vinyl liner in the wheelwell had come detached. Other than that, everything was fine. I apologized profusely to Florence, then later to my dad, who, after ensuring I was okay, was understandably pissed, because if you think about it, you don't hit trees with your car unless multiple lapses in judgement lead you to such an error. I learned a few valuable lessons that day: 1) breathe, 2) don't panic, and 3) teenagers are stupid, myself included.

One day, I was talking with my friend, Taylor. She had just started dating another one of our friends, Trent, and Trent’s car was also a stick shift.

“Trent wants to teach me to drive stick,” Taylor told me one day as we were walking out of class. She chuckled as she continued, “but I feel like I’m going to be terrible and I’ll embarrass myself.”

“What are you doing right now?” I responded.

I called into work to tell them I’d be an hour late, and we arrived 30 minutes later to the church parking lot; we would’ve gotten to the church sooner, but Veronica, Trent, Taylor, and I always waited out the after-school traffic in the parking lot together. And I was more than an hour late to work that day.

Upon arrival, Taylor and I each got out of our driver’s seats. Taylor took her place in the front seat of Florence, my trusty Hyundai Elantra, and I sat in the passenger seat of my own car—what a weird feeling. I explained the basics of giving some gas and slowly releasing the clutch. Taylor started by getting a feel for the gas and clutch. After that, she started to try to get the car moving, which ended in the engine stalling at least a couple of times, each time I grabbed Taylor's arm and screamed a little, but then brushed it off and tried to keep cool. Finally, after a third or fourth attempt, the car lurched forward, and we were off. We practiced starting in first gear a few more times, then practiced shifting to second gear, then before long, we were shifting into third gear...in a parking lot, which was admittedly not the safest move. By the end, Taylor was driving stick like a pro.

"I taught Taylor how to drive stick," Trent recounted the following weekend, probably while we were pigging out at Raising Cane's or something.

"Oh nice! How'd that go?" I asked as Taylor and I exchanged a knowing glance.

"I was really impressed! She got it going first try. She's just a natural, I guess."

Trent and Taylor have now been together for over seven years, and they're celebrating their second wedding anniversary next month. I don't know if Taylor has ever told Trent about the lesson with me and Florence before her lesson with Trent. But I guess what I'm trying to say is that they're together because I'm an amazing driving instructor, and Florence was one perfect hooptie. You're welcome. 

I graduated high school in 2016, then shortly thereafter moved to Mexico to be a missionary. I had only lived away from home for a couple months before I got a message from my mom. It was was a picture of Florence; she was completely mangled. My mind began to spiral as I searched the words in the message for an explanation, a reassurance that everyone was okay. Fortunately, such a reassurance was there-- everyone was fine, except Florence. Florence had been totaled. 

I returned from my time as a missionary in 2018 and immediately moved away again to attend school. Seeing as the bustling metropolis of Rexburg, Idaho has no forms of public transportation, and even has city ordinances barring such installations, I relied entirely on my own two feet and the mercy of friends to get me where I needed to go. One cold Rexburg winter was enough to convince me I couldn't live there without a car.

I was staying with my parents in Las Vegas during some time off from school as I looked through online car listings. I needed something that could get me back and forth between Idaho and Las Vegas while I was in school, without breaking the bank, which proved to be an impossible criteria.

Then, I saw her. 

A white Hyundai Elantra was for sale at a used car dealership. She looked just like Florence, except the color was different, and the listing specified that this vehicle had an automatic transmission. 

My dad and I arrived at the dealership on the East Side. We walked in, told them we were interested, and the salesperson grabbed the keys so we could take it for a test drive.

Sitting in the driver's seat of this car literally brought a tear to my eye. I was rushed with nostalgia as the familiar sound of the engine turning over recalled the thousands of times I had heard it before. I even moved my foot to press the clutch that wasn't there. It drove well. It was in good condition. It was exactly what I was looking for. It was my hooptie.

Florencia. Just like Florence, but just a little different. Her name is Florencia.

Florencia has been with me now for three and a half years. She's taken me to birthday parties and funerals. She's taken me to first dates and brought me home from breakups. Florencia is my therapist. I go on long drives when I'm stressed or sad; it's the only place I can really find privacy as a college student with roommates and paper-thin walls. I voice my feelings out loud in my car; sometimes I wonder if the people in the cars around me can tell that I'm talking to myself. Through sobs, I said the words "I'm gay" out loud for the first time while driving Florencia down Poleline Road south of Rexburg late at night; in subsequent years, I said those words out loud to a few confidants who sat in Florencia's passenger seat. Florencia has taken me through canyons painted with fall colors, to majestic views of the ocean. Florencia has heard me scream-sing "Midnight Sky" by Miley Cyrus an embarrassing number of times.

I have now more than doubled the odometer since purchasing Florencia. Her paint is peeling, her windshield cracked. There's a strange rattling noise that everyone who rides in my car asks about, and I've spent hundreds of dollars to have multiple mechanics tell me there's nothing wrong. And sometimes the speakers on the left side of the car cut out and I have to slap the dashboard to get them to start working again. But I love her. She's my hooptie.