I picture the last moments with my 20-year-old Mitsubishi Montero like the last moments between Owen Wilson and Marley in the movie Marley and Me.
I imagine myself slowly walking around it, running my hand over its rough surface, whispering my goodbyes to it, and assuming it can hear me.
It will bring back memories, such as the time I left my keys locked inside it during my first paid assignment as a reporter, when I struggled to unlock it for hours and didn”t get home until well past midnight.
I will remember the first time I drove it from San Diego to Chico, to San Francisco and back to Chico within a span of a few days, and how proud I was of it because it made it without any problems.
Some never find that connection with their car. It”s a machine, a box on wheels that takes you from point A to point B. But for me, in a lot of ways, it was like the partner that was almost unconditionally there for nearly two years.
It gave me a sense of freedom and was my only constant in a time split between three towns.
We survived the summer heat of the long, scene-less Interstate 5 several times and 12 hours of solitude during my move to Lake County.
It was my only companion during numerous lunch hours while I worked summer jobs.
We experienced music and books together.
I stuffed my life into the Monty during two moves, and it got me there safely and in one trip. And during the last month and a half, it got me to the locations of my first assignments as a reporter for the Record-Bee.
It was a friendship between man and machine that sprouted, like with many young people, from the first time I saw it.
My Monty was exactly what I, as a na?ve young man with dreams of adventure, was looking for. It was just in the budget of a college student and rugged enough to take me where I wanted to go.
It stood taller than most, with a peeling golden brown surface, like that of a person”s who has spent too much time at the beach. It was old but it looked strong, and its rough demeanor resembled the toughened skin of a long-retired shipbuilder. It radiated character, a carefree attitude and spirit of an adventurer. And it fit with a way I look at myself, with the idea that I might not be the fastest, but I can go wherever I want.
I cared for it. Nursed it back to health. Like a surgeon, I stained my hands with its fluids and corrected what harmed it. And for almost three years it gave me all it had.
My Monty is fatally ill. It”s bleeding and on its last breaths. But like a stubborn old man refusing to be bedridden, it has been taking me to and from work with the little strength it has left.
Like with everything, time and hard work has consumed it. It no longer has the strength it once had.
The final goodbye is nearing, and like Owen Wilson told Marley, all I can say is,
“I want you to remember you”re a great car, Monty. You”re a great car.”
Isaac Brambila is a staff reporter/ associate editor for Lake County Publishing. He can be reached at 263-5636 ex. 37 or at ibrambila@record-bee.com.
