All eras come to an end, all eras are arbitrary. Like lines on a map, eons and eras are measured by whoever is measuring them and described by whoever gets to write the book. Many of them are silly, like our neon green van era.
When we had Lilah and felt like a “real family” our cars suddenly felt tiny. A baby seat and a booster and all the little kid and baby shit we were required to drag everywhere seemed to fill the front and back seat of the Pontiac. Snacks and diapers, sunblock and bankies, water and medicine. Iodine pills in case of nuclear disaster, silver bullets in case of werewolves, wooden cross in case of vampires. Hey, you never know! Why am I packing gravy boats and corncob holders? You’re right babe, you never know, this picnic could turn outright Methodist and then where would we be!? Eating corn with our hands and trying to figure out proper gravy serving etiquette at the beach with all the seagulls. Chaos! I’ll just throw them in the back, on top of the baby with all our other crap.
So when mother in law offered her Toyota minivan with only 40,000 miles on it to us, what was I supposed to do? Say no? Like I really wanted to? Sure.
I have always hated minivans. Almost as much as wagons, having been forced to roll in our own family truckster, complete with faux wood trim growing up. And then allowed to use it as my car in high school. Where embarrassment turned to a perverse sort of pride as 6 of my friends could fit in it, and the roof was wide and flat, making a perfect vehicle for urban surfing for me and my merry band of 17 year-old idiots. But that is another fable of shame for another time.
Minivans, though! Minivans are the bane of suburban life! The banal costumes of the repressed, the carriages of those with dreams deferred or dead. Would I instantly bald and spawn a fanny pack? Sport khakis with white socks and comfortable, black dress shoes? Probably. I always swore I would never own one. If I have kids (Yeah, like that’ll ever happen! young me always snorted in reply) then they can squeeze into whatever sweet ride I have. My kids can deal, and they’ll love it, because their Dad isn’t lame and would never own a fanny pack or sway to easy listening FM in his stupid minivan that reeks of convenience and mediocrity. Fuck no, that’ll never happen!
“Well…I’m going to buy a Prius. I’ve always wanted one, it gets great gas mileage, and us three old ladies don’t need a minivan really. And I think you could use it with your babies,” Cindy said with a happy smile you could hear all the way from Las Vegas. She loved her granddaughters so, and would do whatever she could for them, no matter what. “I know a minivan isn’t exactly what you dreamed about, but…it’s only got 40,000 miles and is in pretty good shape. You want it?”
I waited the appropriately cool amount of time before responding.
“Wow, Cindy. That’s…incredibly generous. And no, I don’t want it. But how could I say no? It would be GREAT. Our family would love it.”
“Lucky for you I had it custom painted that neon green last year. You’ll never lose it.”
I had almost forgotten about that. The lime green van. “Nuclear pistachio,” I had called it after Cindy had sent us a proud and embarrassed picture of her custom insanity. Rather than buy a new car, like she had wanted, she had talked herself into the far more reasonable option of a new paint job.
“One of a kind!” The painter had warned her. “We’ll give you what we got left over, but you’ll never be able to replicate it.” Thank God.
People would stare at us on the freeways. Mouth things like holy crap as we went by. Take pictures. Come up to me in parking lots, excited, and ask where did we get such a unique color. (Those were mostly snazzy ladies in their sixties. I don’t know why their ven diagrams crossed so perfectly.) I even got outed at Disneyland, a friend wondering where in the park we were because they saw our gleaming, painful vision of a vehicle. At DISNEYLAND, for Christ’s sake, where a million people come and go in a week.
It was hard to get used to. Especially in a small town. Wherever we went, wherever I went, somebody knew. How I was driving, where I was going.
“I saw you today and waved, you didn’t wave back.”
“Well shit, I’m sorry I didn’t notice you in your white car while I was trying to not kill us all.”
“Where were you going in such a hurry this morning?”
“A few places, were you in front of me? Then I was trying to get around you!”
What is this, fucking Maybury? Turns out it is. Drive a nuclear green minivan and all kinds of people that like you will wave at you. The ones that hate you, and there will always be some, will seethe and look away while silently tracking where you are going. No more midday trips to the houses of ill repute or a dive bar. Everyone will know.
Of course you think that everyone is waving at you, until you drive something else. You still notice all of them, because you’re used to the waves that you thought were for you. No, they’re not. Your bright green minivan was the star that everyone saw. You were merely the shadowed driver of the actual celebrity.
Still…the girls loved it so. All their friends knew the damn thing and most of them had been forced to ride in it. Most of their childhood was spent in the glaring obscenity. Sophie was convinced we were never getting rid of it, and she would drive it when she was older. Lilah cried when we even talked about losing it.
And here I sit, with old people tears in my own damn eyes. Walking away from it, outside of Smitty’s Auto, the engine finally given up the ghost. Cleaned out and empty. Eight years of Lilah’s socks and forgotten half-sandwiches, stickers from the Doctors and Dentists plastered like little girl graffiti over the years. Golf tees and soccer balls, naked dollies, gum wrappers. The echoes of Sophie and Lucille giggling over their silly world they inhabited together for five years, in another eon of playdates. Where my 30’s gave it up, where Lilah had her first seizure that horrible day after Kindergarten. Trips to Disney and Monterey, grandparents and field trips to the zoo and now it was just a propped up mass of salvage parts, to be put on someone else’s old, crappy Sienna that could never be as cool as our bright green minivan.
Now I’ll be in some over-engineered thing with too many angles and computerized everything. More things I don’t need, more shit to go wrong. Warm my butt and tell me how to get there and power everything up so I don’t have to strain a finger. Coddle me, computer-driven chariot, so I may be another unnoticed worm blending into these well-worm cow paths. I’ll even let you drive.
Oh, well. All things come to an end, all eons are arbitrary. At least now I can salvage a bit of anonymity if I’m in a hurry, stop at the liquor store, or visit somewhere unseemly in Maybury. Unless I’m forced to get some unique color by the women in my life. Probably orange. God forbid we don’t get to wave like we’re on parade every time we go to the fucking store. That would be sad.
I’m sorry you lost one of your babies, The Neon Green Machine. I remember saying farewell to the wagon (the one you mentioned) and taking the rearview mirror, such a sentimental sap!
Well. Thank you for memorializing the green monster. I always loved her but more so knowing she held my most precious cargo for some years. The comments around town have been strange and heartwarming. Two ladies in Starbucks actually told me there should be a community memorial service. Carla said “this is gonna be hard. That car brought a lot of smiles to alot of people”. I am so glad you took that final picture. I feared there would be no proof of existence. I am excited about your new car. What a treat. Glad there is room in our hearts for the old gal.
No one waves to me now. I pretend they’re all just mad at me. Not anonymous, notorious!
Hey, I loved that van! When I drove it, I felt felt as if I belonged, and that all of my neighbors whose names I’d forgotten were greeting me on my way. It did occur to me after several waving experiences from people I sure didn’t know, that they were merely acknowledging The Van. Oh well….