Goodbye, Camry

Oh, Camry. Like a old relative in a nursing home who drains his family's savings, you just refused to die. And then, to the relief of all who knew you, you did. Your engine shook, your gears stopped, and then all you could see was light. This light was not transcendent. It was not heavenly. It was orange. And it was the check engine light. Since you weren't worth the gas we put inside you, that little light meant it was time to go a better place. Probably the junk yard.

You, our Camry, will not be missed. You were a car; not a person. And you were a bad car. You were an ugly car. Your beige interior matched your beige exterior, which matched your complete beige-ness. Less flashy than a black hole, you excelled only in mediocrity. You had a tape player, for crying out loud. And it broke. You had a broken tape player. Once I left the doors unlocked and the key in the ignition. But even on the South Side of Chicago, no one would take you. And who can blame them?

We have fond memories in you, but no fond memories of you.

That, of course, is a fabrication of the truth. We have exactly two fond memories of you. First, you allowed yourself to be hit by a medical student in a 4Runner. We thank you. That was a nice check we received from the medical student's insurance company. We could have used it to repair you; but, as you know, you weren't worth it. The second fond memory we have of you is our last: the memory of that car dealer actually giving us money to take you. Surely he only did so because he felt sorry for us, and it wasn't that much, but we will always relish the pity that had a price tag.

What is there left to say, Camry? You made it on long trips? You hauled that trailer to Chicago? So what? You were a car. You're supposed to work. The fact that we were thrilled with these achievements only shows how low the bar was set.

Goodbye, Camry. I hated you every day.