Abbey's Road: A car conspiracy
Listen, we’re not fancy people.
My husband drives the same little silver car that at least a hundred other suburbanites in our immediate vicinity also drive to school, work, the grocery store.
We also have a minivan, because parenthood.
For a number of years now, these two vehicles have served us faithfully. In the van, we’ve traveled thousands of miles across the country, grinding Goldfish crumbs into the upholstery and collecting bits of rock, pinecones, souvenirs and value meal toys in the cupholders, where they stick to the dried apple juice and kind of just … gel.
The van shuttles us to and from school, concerts, skating competitions and practices and overall, I feel like we’ve treated it with as much respect as a 9-year-old minivan can expect to receive.
Since the car is Mr. Roy’s territory, I don’t spend much time there. There may be a colony of dust bunnies living on the dashboard, but whatever the agreement is between them and Mr. Roy, I am not privy to it.
Abbey's Road: An Ode to the Quiet Ones
Having established this humble background, I now need to let you in on a little secret: I am pretty certain our vehicles are conspiring against us, and at the moment they are winning.
I like to imagine last week they had a conversation that went something like this:
Van: “Pssst. Sonata. How ya doing? You’ve looked better.”
Car: “I could say the same about you. Did the crows use you for target practice?”
Van: “Nah, just the paint chipping. I just feel like we’ve been so neglected lately, what with that run-in at Target that sent me to the shop and all this claptrap that keeps getting left in my trunk. Like what am I, a closet?”
Car: “I feel you. I have a box of clothes that was meant for Goodwill so long ago it’s all back in style.”
Van: “Know what we should do?”
Car: “What?”
Van: “Quit.”
Car: “I mean, I appreciate your spirit, but I still have some fight left in me. Plus, I’m loving this new battery.”
Van: “OK, fine. What if we quit juuuust enough to make them pay attention to us, but not enough to make them start shopping for replacements? I can feel my brakes going. How about you? Should we coordinate?”
Car: “I think for maximum impact we should space it out about a week. Just to give them a false sense of security before the other shoe — er, tire — drops. Speaking of tires, you look like you could use some new ones.”
Van: “You know what? I think I could, too. Godspeed, and enjoy your battery.”
Abbey's Road: Savoring the sound of silence
After they had this clandestine meeting somewhere in the driveway in the wee hours, the car’s brake system failed and resulted in a trip to the shop accompanied by a mechanic bill equating to a month’s worth of groceries.
The following week on my way home from a meeting, the van started making a really funny sound, and in that moment, I knew in the pit of my stomach that it would be rice and beans for us for a while.
Apparently, the mechanic told Mr. Roy that, on top of its brakes also being shot, the van’s tires were “balder than my head.”
I don’t know anything about the mechanic but I guess that’s a start.
So now we have a car with new brakes, one in the shop and are borrowing Grammy’s van in the meantime.
We have downgraded our summer vacation plans from hotels to tent camping, but at least we have the assurance that when it’s time to stop at our destination, we can do so without trouble.
Abbey Roy is a mom of three girls who make every day an adventure. She writes to maintain her sanity. You can probably reach her at amroy@nncogannett.com, but responses are structured around bedtimes and weekends.
This article originally appeared on Newark Advocate: Abbey is convinced her vehicles plotted to fail in succession
