Back in the 80s, as a teenager newly possessing a driver’s license, I watched my friends start getting hand-me-down cars—often the kind that seemed more suited for a junkyard than the road. Observing family history through my older siblings, I assumed I wouldn’t have the luxury of a car at my disposal. With that in mind, I took on every odd job—babysitting, walking beans, and even braving the back room of a Tom Thumb convenience store with its terrifying deep fryer—not to save for a car, which felt like a far-off dream, but to buy a bike. Yes, a bicycle, not any motorized contraption.
Success! I proudly purchased a brand-new, evergreen, three-speed bike with a tan seat—peculiarly designed without the crossbar for modest skirt-wearing rides. My friend’s dad kindly assembled it for me at their family hardware store on Hector’s Main Street. I was beaming. That bike became my loyal companion for the remaining summer days, and I was eager to ride it to school.
On that first school day, with my license in one pocket and my bike on my mind, I prepared to head to the garage. Walking meant a hefty twenty-five-minute journey; biking would shrink it to something closer to ten or twelve. Driving took a mere five, based on previous lifts. Timing my departure perfectly twenty minutes before first bell, I discovered an unanticipated absence—my bike was gone.
Panic was fleeting. Spotting Dad’s ’79 Caprice Classic standing proud in the driveway, realization struck. He’d taken my bike. Left without alternatives, I had to drive the car.
This marked the beginning of a lighthearted yet persistent quarrel spanning years:
Dad: My bike! Me: My car!
Fast forward a few years. Now married and expecting, my mom—not Dad—sold that old car to my husband for a mere dollar, ideal leverage for a vehicle upgrade. While the car might have seemed like a winning prize in our dispute, I argue Dad won—he kept my bike for years, and that car was loaded with trouble. Yet, I cherished that Caprice. It was a chaotic saga, but one I still recount fondly—because it taught me a great deal.
These days, Charlie (the Caprice) continues to teach me about reciprocal affection. Our relationship wasn’t balanced. (Note: I name my cars, and post-Charlie, there’s Snoopy. Let’s save that tale for another time.)
Charlie, unintentionally two-toned maroon and rust, was a massive presence in my life. He often controlled me more than I him, eerily matching my current dating life. Winter starts? Dependable. But summers saw his defiance. His mysterious side dents? I’ll spare those details, but let’s say he endured older siblings, college parking lots, and gravel pits.
Brake issues plagued him. For a stretch, he wouldn’t budge below thirty mph and wouldn't exceed forty-five on the highway labeling me a “grandma driver” at seventeen. Luckily, my then-boyfriend-now-ex-husband, being handy with cars, resolved those quirks. But quirks like a lone functioning windshield wiper and a deceptive gas gauge lingered.
What charmed me about Charlie? He was my sole transportation source, affordable at my bike’s equivalent plus a dollar, perfect for dating, yet fraught with perils. Reflecting back, our relationship was anything but healthy. Somehow, I loved what was dangerous. It was an unbalanced affection.
In time, the engine deteriorated alarmingly, refusing forward motion post the second reverse. Humiliating moments punctuated our time, like his suspension collapse on Fargo’s 13th Ave. He truly was trouble.
Even in chaos, Charlie was preferable to my ex's notorious Datsun pickup—floorless, hair-raising views of highway blurred beneath our feet.
Looking lovingly back at Charlie’s car-shaped mirage and recognizing its flawed nature, I realized, real relationships demand intentionality, reciprocity where possible. Charlie couldn't offer that balance. What he symbolized was a cherished, if unhealthy, attachment.
In healthy relationships, both sides must give and take—dynamic but fundamentally reciprocal. If one party is abusive or neglectful, this disrupts the balance. This balance doesn’t demand perfect equality every moment; it recognizes life’s ebbs, unavoidable illnesses, or distance. When balance falters without valid reason, it should be addressed to avoid harsh resentments or even abuse.
Unconditional love is a virtuous kaleidoscope: noble yet potentially confining. For living beings, not cars, it entails no expectation of return and thrives in honest, reciprocal exchanges. My story with Charlie concluded with a shift to a trusty blue Corsica. Proper upkeep ensured reliability—this was true, healthy reciprocity.
Remember, relationships need upkeep. While you may miss the notion of things that once were, what matters is how well you're cared for today as much as how well you care. Are you maintaining your key connections? Is it time for a tune-up?
Thanks for reading!
Sarah
Humor In Chaos
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