The Red Beast Goes to Beast Heaven

Oh, how I loved my Red Beast. We had such good times together. We really went places -- places I could have never gone to alone. Together it seemed like we had the world at our feet.

My Red Beast came from good stock. It was so strong, so reliable, so good-looking (on the inside, that is, and with me, it's what's on the inside that counts). My Red Beast was my "first" -- you know how girls never forget their "first." Now that my Red Beast has gone to Beast Heaven, there will always be a special place in my heart for burgundy, 1980s Dodge Aries station wagons.

I never learned how to drive when I was a teenager living in the country. After graduating from high school, I moved to New York City. I didn't need to drive while living in the city, so the years kept going by and I never learned.

Although it was certainly no problem in the city, my inability to drive was an issue when I visited the country -- I was always at the mercy of others to drive me where I wanted to go. I began to think, Gee, I really should learn how to drive....

When I was going out with this guy who lived in the Woodstock area, he was flabbergasted when I told him I didn't know how to drive. He took me to the DMV to get my permit, and began giving me lessons on his crappy automatic. I began to get a feel for the road, but he had little patience as a driving instructor, and thus, my driving skills didn't progress much. We broke up before I came even close to being ready to take my road test. I didn't drive again for over a year.

Then one day my mom had some news: a good friend of hers had a car she didn't want anymore, and if I wanted it, she would give to me. It was a burgundy, 1984 Dodge Aries station wagon. The car had been in an accident, and was considered totaled by the insurance company -- but it still ran well, and the interior was in great condition.

The problem was that the car had what you might call a slight imperfection: the left backseat door was smashed in and didn't open, and the glass on that window and the next one back had been replaced with heavy plastic and a lot of duct tape. Despite this shortcoming my mom said I should take it, because it was a solid, working car, and also, because it was (and I quote), "High time you got your ass out there and learned how to drive."

I registered and insured the car in my name, and became its new, proud owner. Because the car was big and clunky (and highly imperfect looking) my mom began to affectionately refer to it as the "Red Beast," and the name stuck.

There wasn't enough room for my Red Beast to park in the driveway at my mom's (it was going to be strictly a "country car"), so I had to spend $100 on gravel to make a parking spot off of the driveway. Being the city girl that I am, spending $100 on a heap of gravel wasn't high on my "must have/must do" list, but my Red Beast required it, so I forked over the cash. My mom called the Beast's parking spot its "throne," and that name stuck as well. When my car was parked in its spot, we would say, "The Red Beast is sitting on its throne."

Then my mom began to teach me how to drive my "new" car. It was a formidable process, because the car was a standard shift (much more complicated than my ex's automatic). Many a time I ground the gears and burned clutch. But throughout my learning and subsequent abusing of the car, not once did it falter. It kept right on starting up and going strong. As my driving improved and I began to master handling the car, I began to appreciate it more and more. We were bonding.

About two years later, I took -- and passed -- my very first road test. It was a momentous day indeed! (Okay, so I'm not the fastest study.) Although she was glad, my mom commented, "Well, it's about time." Yeah, I suppose it was.

Once I got my license, my Red Beast and I had a blast. When I visited the country in the summertime, we went yard sale-ing and swimming (well, actually, I was the one who went swimming -- my Red Beast waited patiently in the shade). We visited friends, and went to barbecues. (My Red Beast didn't especially care for grilled food or fires, but went with me nonetheless on every one of those outings, without so much as a single spat of complaint.)

Several times my Red Beast helped me cart my extensive collection of antique bric-a-brac to the Woodstock flea market, so I could sell some of it. This helped to offset the cost of my Red Beast's penchant for gasoline and pricey garage visits. (I bet my Red Beast's real reason for enjoying those garage trips was its hope for another chance encounter with that cool old Corvette we once saw parked there.)

From time to time, I'd get flak from my friends about not fixing the missing, taped-over window, or a snide comment here and there about perhaps getting a different car altogether. No way! As far as I was concerned, my Red Beast looked great on the inside, and it always ran well -- that's all I cared about. My mom's friend who gave me the car once asked, "So, when are you trading it in for a new one?"

"I'm not," I replied, as I affectionately patted the dashboard, "I'm running this one into the ground!"

Beauty was definitely in the eyes of the beholder: me. Shallow, superficial people might have been embarrassed to ride around in such a car, but nope -- not me. I saw beyond such trivialities, deep down into the soul of its steadfast, greasy engine. I cared about my Red Beast -- I was devoted -- it had me wrapped around its 2430-pound body. My devotion really showed when I hand-washed it, because a drive-thru car wash and my Red Beast's taped over window were not things to be mixed and mingled.

But then, one balmy summer evening, my life with my Red Beast was changed forever....

I decided to take my Beast out dancing in New Paltz. It's quite a trek to the club, a forty-minute drive in each direction. I was thirty minutes into my trip, driving about 50 mph, when all of a sudden I noticed I was driving a little off the white line on the right-hand side of the road. I thought, Oh, how careless of me -- I'm not paying attention, as I turned the wheel a fraction to the left, to get back inside the white line.

This wasn't as simple a maneuver as I had thought it would be. When I turned the wheel slightly, the car went into a massive swerve. Someone up there was looking out for me, because the lane of oncoming traffic was clear when I swerved completely into it. Then I swerved back into my lane. After this second swerve, I realized something weird was happening, and I no longer had control of my car. I swerved back again into the lane of oncoming traffic (thankfully, it was still clear of any cars).

Then the back end of my car spun out, and I was perpendicular across both lanes, heading directly off the road into who knows where. I remember thinking, This is not a dream -- this is real life. This is my reality, right now, and I'm going to crash my car!

I braced myself for impact. There was a loud crashing sound, and the next thing I knew, my car was at a standstill, face down, in a ditch off the side of the road.

I immediately felt pain across my upper chest. I took a deep breath. It didn't hurt more when I breathed deeply, so I knew I was basically all right. (I figured the chest pain was from some mild external injury, rather than from a far worse internal one I could have gotten.)

I unfastened my seat belt and stumbled out of my car. I sat down on the ground, away from it. A car behind me had seen the whole thing, and already had pulled over. A guy came running over to me and asked, "Are you okay? Are you okay?"

I was dazed, but I said I was okay. I didn't know what to do - I had never been in a car accident before. I looked up at my Beast. Its whole front end was down in the ditch, and smoke was coming out from its bent-up hood. I had some bruises and aches, but my Red Beast... oh, it was quite the sorry sight. I asked the guy who was helping me, "My car -- is it... totaled?" He said he wasn't sure, but it didn't look good.

Within minutes, my accident turned into a whole scene. Other cars stopped, and soon the police and an ambulance arrived. A couple of paramedics began to check me out. They took my blood pressure and pulse, and asked me a round of questions, probably to deduce if I was under the influence of anything. A policeman phoned my mom. He told me he would give me a ride to the station house, where my mom would meet me.

My mom and a friend of hers arrived at the station. I walked over to them feeling stupid -- I thought my own carelessness had caused my accident. When I explained what had happened, the first thing my mom's friend said was, "It sounds like something went wrong with one of your car's tires." We were all curious to find out the cause of the accident, so we drove to the garage where my car had been towed.

We found my Red Beast on the lot. The front right side was crunched in, and the passenger door didn't close anymore. The front right tire was completely flat and hanging from its rim. My mom's friend said the tire must have gone flat while I was driving (hence the strange, burning odor I remembered smelling moments before I lost control). She said, "It wasn't your fault at all. You were incredibly lucky to walk away from this."

I asked if my beloved Beast was totaled. The answer was yes. Then everything hit me: the shock of being in an accident, what could have happened if I weren't so lucky, and the current state of my car. I broke down. I started to cry -- for myself, and for my bygone Red Beast.

I didn't feel so great when I woke up on Saturday morning. As can be imagined, I wasn't in the best of spirits either. Later that day, my mom and I went to the garage where my Beast had been towed, to remove the license plates and stereo. We drove down the very road of my accident. I had never paid particular attention what lined the sides of this road before, but this time I did. I saw cliffs with twenty-foot drops, huge rock slabs, and many big trees and telephone poles. I thought once again how lucky I was to end up in a perfect, unobstructed ditch, without having hit anything or anyone along the way.

After we took the plates and stereo, and emptied out the glove box, I asked my mom, "Is there anything else we should take... should we siphon off the gas, or take the floor mats or something?"

"Are you crazy?"

In a quiet, sullen voice, I replied, "I never had to strip my car before. I don't know what the procedure is."

When I woke up on Sunday, my spirits were worse. I walked outside. It was a beautiful summer morning in the country, but I was miserable. I felt like crap, and I had no car anymore. No more Red Beast to take me places, and do fun things with. I wanted to go back to the city and be alone in my apartment. I asked my mom if she would drive me to the bus station. When she dropped me off, she said, "I guess it wasn't a very good weekend for your team."

Back in the city, I had a quiet day at home. The highlight of my day was going to the frozen yogurt store. Sunday is "Peanut Butter Day" (my favorite flavor). I got a large. Actually, I got two, because I used one of my buy-one-get-one-free coupons. I thought about eating them both at the same sitting, but I didn't. I guess I was feeling more sad than pig-like.

A few weeks before my car accident I'd met this guy who was a chiropractor, and we'd been on two good dates (the guy I met on the street). I thought I might feel better emotionally if he "checked me out," and told me I hadn't messed up my back.

I called him and said, "I know I don't know you too well to ask you a favor, but... well... I was in a car accident on Friday, and I was wondering if you could 'check me out'."

"Of course. I'll be right over." There wasn't a lot he could do outside of his office, so he told me to come in the next day for a proper examination.

I moved around slowly at work on Monday, but not much was required of me, so I was able to manage. After work I saw my chiropractor/friend. He found a vertebra in the lower, left side of my back that was out of alignment. It felt better after he realigned it.

Some time has gone by and my bruises have since healed, but I still mourn for the loss of my car. Yet I am very thankful for having the luxury of mourning for my car, rather than for any major damage to myself. As much as I loved my Red Beast, I have to say, "Better it than me."

My mom says as soon as I get a new car, I won't think so much about my old one -- just like with old boyfriends. I hope she's right.

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This is the story of our Red Beast. She was likely born in Detroit but became a Canadian when she traveled to her home province of British Columbia and served an elderly schoolmarm who only drove it to and from school. We took her, hauling a trailer, down to Las Vegas to do some rock climbing. However, two hours outside of San Francisco, she collided with the highway. The lack of brakes (as well as brains on our part) on the trailer caused it to fishtail wildly before swinging around and flipping us over. Amazing enough, there were no injuries although we did receive some threatening glares from irate motorists who were not too fond of us blocking two lanes of interstate for about two hours, headlights shining dimly and radio weakly playing Smashing Pumpkins.

And then there was the resurrection. We replaced all bodily fluids, removed the top, and used the tailgate window (the only piece of unbroken glass) as our windshield. And the Beast became a convertible. Then we applied electroshock therapy, which brought the truck back to life. And we renamed her the Red Beast. Actually we renamed it something slightly different but the name migrated to Beast. Two weeks ago, we sold it as a dune buggy in Las Vegas and returned home. She could have made it home, but given that she's now a convertible, she wouldn't have been very happy with our winter weather.

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