There comes a time in every heavily-abused motor vehicle’s life, in which it must be sent to the great scrap heap in the sky. Shmu, survivor of 8 Chicago winters, warrior of the great Grandma wreck of 2010, dumping ground for train sewage, friend, Buick, patriot – it is your time.
I honestly thought that she would last far into the 22nd century, eventually being outfitted with flying car gear, time travel capabilities, and maybe a new paint job, but it was not to be. I would have preferred if she simply went quietly into the long night; one cold, autumn morning I would go to the parking lot and she just wouldn’t start, but no.
Not, Shmu.
She tried to kill me.
A few weeks ago I fired her up and noted that the brake wasn’t quite doing full brakey things. I mean, it worked, but a lot more pressure was required for the same amount of action.
As I was driving down lower Wacker drive to my friend’s engagement party, I touched the brake as I approached a stop light, and… it got ugly. My foot was mashed against the floor of the car, the giant red light signaling there is a BRAKE problem lit up, and the whole vehicle started fishtailing.
It’s worth noting that Lower Wacker Drive is a terrifying place. It’s an underground tunnel where they filmed car chases for Batman: The Dark Knight. Like, had my car crashed there, I think it would have been a very short trip for my soul to escape to the underworld. It’s also terrifying to be driving 40 miles an hour through darkness and not be able to brake – I mean - it’s always scary not to be able to brake, but there are no shoulders down there, just brick walls to drive “safely” into.
I get control of Shmu and am able to return to the daylight and park at my friend’s apartment building. The whole time I’m at her engagement party, I’m just trying to think about how to get my car taken care of and not die in the process.
Afterward I end up at an autoshop where the man who looked at my car goes, “This repair can cost very much or not that much.”
That was the estimate.
He was very friendly and showed me the rotted, rust-covered innards of Shmu. (“See – when you hit brake, this no should make fluid like this.”)
I left the shop 90% sure that fixing her would cost me all my work stock money – or I’d end up buying a new car, which would… cost all my work stock money.
The next day I get the call, “It fixed. $200.”
It was a relief the cost was so low… but also I knew it was the end of Shmu. I’d literally just seen her flooding a garage with brake fluid and … you just know when it’s time to pull the plug on a loved one.
I made final arrangements – calling my mom and stepdad and playing the “I’m your idiot life-experience-deficient son who needs help buying a new car” card.
The next weekend I drove down to Springfield and turned over Shmu (if you can believe it, they gave me $1000 for her). You know it’s a good trade-in, when the sales guy comes out of the shop with a clipboard, looks at the car, then looks at the clipboard and goes “Oh, I won’t need this.”
The car I got was another Buick. It wasn’t really the end of Shmu, just a reincarnation into Electric Booglshmu, lovingly named after my car’s new garish, very homo blue color scheme.
I think it’s only fitting at this point in time to talk about the great feats of Shmu, as we welcome her evolved form into my garage.
She survived a cross-country road trip driving one of my best friends and I to Pennsylvania, Washington , D.C., and New York.
There were probably at least 5 times when I left her during street utility work and she was hauled away to an unknown location. This includes the time I had to report her stolen.
One time driving my grandmother home in a snow storm, Shmu slipped off the road and had to be hauled out of the ditch. My grandmother would have nightmares about being burned alive in Shmu due to the incident – not Shmu’s proudest moment.
The time I was told I could have died if I’d driven her one more time due to the brakes (in retrospect, she had a long, bitter struggle with Brakcitis).
Whenever I wanted to listen to my iphone in the car I had to literally jiggle the aux cord for 10 minutes before it somehow found the perfect spot to not give me weird staticy-feedback.
Of course it would be remiss to not mention the years she sat behind my apartment and collected train sludge and rust. Turns out train-oil black is not her color.
When I first bought Shmu, it was from a 92-year-old man who yelled at my stepdad for suggesting the brakes made weird sounds (ALWAYS brakes with her!). The old man defended her honor and promised that I couldn’t find a better car out there.
And to be honest, he was 100% true. Brake issues and attempted murder aside, Shmu is intrinsically a part of my entire post-college life. She unwaveringly drove me 10’s of thousands of miles across the country, mostly through the flatlands of the Midwest. She was ugly, made a lot of noise, had a busted sound system, and was a train sludge magnet, but, weird as it is, when I pulled up to a friend’s place covered in goop, she always put a smile on people’s faces.
“You’re driving that?!”
“What is even wrong with your car?”
The weekend after I got my new car, I went to a friend’s wedding. I picked up my buddy and he stood in shock at my new ride that has BLUETOOTH capability (yes, I spent all my stock money).
“Where’s Shmu?” he asked.
“Ugh, she tried to kill me and I had to get this.”
“Oh, man,” he said, “I was literally just telling someone about her. The car that can’t be killed.”
Shmu, your rusted-out chasse burned out long before your legend ever will. I’ll see you in the big car park in the sky.