The Yoshi-Mobile

I have never been very good with cars. Sure, I knew basic maintenance; I wasn’t that stupid. I knew how to open the complicated gas tank to fill it, and I could run it through the car wash occasionally to keep the peeling exterior looking its best. I failed at other maintenance though. I mean, I wasn’t an expert.

My first car was a Pontiac Sunbird. Its shedding green paint would sparkle when the sun hit it just right, and the puff of smoke that erupted from the exhaust pipe every time the car started would float through the air like a dark, playful cloud. It was perfect; just plain beautiful.
I purchased it for about five hundred dollars from a close friend. “Don’t buy it from me,” she warned, “It’s a piece of crap. That’s why I’m selling it.” I was young, carefree, and desperate for a car and companion. With all signs pointing to only positive outcomes, I eagerly bought my very first car.

He ran very well for a while. He was my Yoshi-moble, and I was his driver. Nothing could separate us; jealous people, the world, not even the little red oil light the flashed warningly occasionally.

Each day I had to drive fifteen miles to fulfill my education as an eager student. For almost half of a year we spent each morning and afternoon together with complete happiness. That is, until disaster struck our joyful world. The once-inviting little red light, which normally gave a blinking, cheerful hello, was now stuck on an angry glare. For weeks I ignored it; and a week or so after that I grew irritated with its intentional havoc on our relationship.

Finally, I decided that no longer could I ignore it. I took Yoshi in to the repair shop where I heard devastating news. My car, I had been informed, had cancer. He had a tumor within its water pump, and if I did not take care of it soon, he would not last much longer. The surgery would cost about five hundred dollars; four hundred and ninety-five of which I did not have. Sadly, head hung low, I went out to meet my friend, who was not aware of the time he had left. He greeted me with a happy purr when he started, and I made up my mind that I would not let him know. I would continue to drive him until his last dying day, and we would stay happy.
After about two weeks, the dreaded day came. After about five minutes of driving, the oil light was joined by more enemies. The oil pressure needle was through the roof, and the check engine light flashed more than normal. I convinced myself that the Yoshi-mobile was actually fine. The Tunex employee had no idea what he was talking about, and that some wires were only experiencing a minor malfunction, hence the lights were flashing as a result. It meant nothing. Nothing!

Ten minutes into the drive, after convincing myself that everything would be fine, the engine began to smoke, and the faint scent of fire filled the air. Tactics changed abruptly. I went from denial to, well, slightly optimistic. “Please car, please. Just make it to school. That’s all you need to do now. You’ve been a good friend…a good…well, what I’m trying to say is…I loved you. Do you hear that? I loved you!”

BANG! The car jerked violently as the engine exploded. I was left in the middle of a crowded street with a dead friend. He had tried to be strong, but when he knew he was loved, he just let go. Putting him in neutral, I tried to push Yoshi to the side of the road. Several big, strong, capable men slowed down, not to help, but to laugh as I nearly killed myself trying to clear the road, and several other people also only slowed down to watch from their air-conditioned, still-living vehicles. Soon, I was sitting on the side of the road with my departed companion. Now people came to stop when the hard work was done. “Do you need help? Can I give you a lift?”
“No. I’m fine. Thanks.” After that happened, I realized it was a stupid mistake. I felt that I would betray the Yoshi-mobile if I left him on the side of the road. But now I realized that sitting with him alone would accomplish nothing. Grudgingly, I called a friend to pick me up, while I had a tow truck take the Yoshi-mobile back home.

It’s been almost two years now. I sold my poor dead friend to a man for spare parts, but he still resides within a special, deep part of my heart, and always will. I’ve had other cars since…two. One also passed on fairly early, and my current mode of transportation, a lively little truck named Snow Puff, looks like she’ll be a keeper. I haven’t made the same mistake I’ve done with the Yoshi-mobile. I’ve taken Snow Puff for annual checkups, and only deny the small things, like the faint smell of burning, or the oil she tends to leak quite a bit.

People tell me that I should buy a car that actual runs; that isn’t a hundred years old and a worthless pile of junk. But I pay no attention to their pessimistic way of life. I’ve made my choice; three times, three different cars. I stand by them.