As I sat watching the State of the Union Address tonight, and heard Bush call for energy reforms, I realized our nation owes me a debt of gratitude. Would you like to know why? Of course, you would. It’s because gas prices are falling. And the reason gas prices are falling is because we’re using less oil. And do you know why we’re using less oil? It’s because Bessie is laid up under the carport, and I haven’t needed to put any in her for a while. In case you didn’t know, if your Jeep has an oil leak, it’s just an indication that ya still got some.
I wanted a Jeep since I was three years old and my grandpa held me on his lap and let me drive his. He worked the pedals and I got to steer.
Back about 1989 or so, I lived in Colorado, forty-five “summer” miles (winter miles are longer) from the place where I worked split shifts. My ex worked at the same place, but he worked the graveyard shift. When he got off work, he would come get me, drive back and drop me off, and twelve hours later, would return to pick me up. We only had the one car. One day he fell asleep somewhere he shouldn’t have been, and was six hours late picking me up. When he finally got there, I drove home, and when we arrived, I made him get out. I drove away in his car. That’s right. I drove away and never went back. I sold that car and bought another car, which led to another car, and eventually, to my Bessie.
Jimmy Puckett came to help us get out of the mud, and he got stuck, too.Bessie turns eighteen this year. She doesn’t have air conditioning because she doesn’t wear a hardtop. She thinks her little bikini top is so much sexier. She’s a teenager; what can I say? I got Bessie in Vail, where summer temperatures average seventy degrees on a summer day. A week later, I moved to Phoenix, where summer temperatures make the deep fryer at Mickey D’s seem like a polar ice cap. I see James Goody coming with my Darwin Award now.
Bessie has had an adventurous life. She still brags about the climb to Holy Cross City, and the one where she high-centered on top of a mountain in a deluge, where she struggled for three days to free herself, only to slide sideways down the mountain, and be stopped by …TREE! Woo hoo! What a ride!
She has 200K on her, so she slacks off about every other month or so. She’s undergone a trainy transplant, a brain transplant, and has received a couple new clutches. She traded in the crappy carburetor that came installed for a shiny new Weber. Just about every part of Bessie has been replaced at least once, except for her engine.
A couple years ago, I spent a thousand dollars for some major surgery she needed. Then something else went wrong, and she laid up in the bed for weeks until I ran out of every bit of food and toilet paper I had in the house and had to rent a car just to go shopping. I changed her fuel filter and fuel pump, but neither were the problem. She had to be carried home piggyback. I got online and researched her symptoms, and listened to every motorhead with a suggestion. Except Johnny. Johnny is one of my oldest friends, and he's a bit of an expert, having worked at Coleman-Taylor Transmissions for a coon's age. But his suggestion was the same one he's been giving me for years. "Get a new car." Shoot, Bessie was only sixteen then. Here it is two years later, and she’s still kicking. Sort of.
I ignored Johnny, as usual, and changed Bessie's parts with the frequency of a teen-age girl dressing for a date, hoping she'd find something she felt beautiful in. We finally found something she liked, and made a short trip to the video store. As we were pulling in the lot, about to park, a small pick-up truck backed out from our left, without looking, and wham! He hit Bessie broadside, right in her driver's door. Of course, I was outraged at the idiot's appalling assault, and jumped out to see how badly she was hurt. Then the nitwit driver got out of his truck and - he seemed like a really nice guy. As I was getting his insurance information, I read "Jeep," and "'89," then I really saw his truck for the first time. A Jeep Comanche, the same age as Bessie. I imagine to her, that's the equivalent of tall, dark, and handsome.
Justin, that was the driver's name, mentioned he worked at a car dealership, so I figured he probably knew a little something about cars. We talked about the new engine he just put in the Comanche, and he knew to the tenth how many miles the old one had. He fixed the break in the flare over Bessie's wheel; it really had only come apart, and snapped easily back into place. The black paint from his bumper turned out to be nothing more than rubber, which pulled off like a band-aid, and the dent on Bessie's cheek was really not much more than a hickey. I think she liked it.
The Comanche was a little worse. He needed a new bumper. I'll bet it wasn’t easy to find, even if the guy did work at a dealership. 89 Comanche's are fairly rare. I thought Bessie was in love, so we decided to settle amicably by forgetting about it. But you know what? He never called her like he said he would, and I think it took something out of her.
She’ll get back on the road again one of these days. If you see an old red Wrangler with a bikini top that sounds like a Harley with a lawnmower chasing it, honk and wave to us.
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