Sunday, May 23, 2004
My Affair with Violeta
I am making it clear—I do not drive my own car.
Unlike most of my friends who can shake their booty every time Nelly's "Ride with Me" is played on their car stereo, I go through the ordeal of chasing manic bus drivers on Monday mornings (and other days of the week as well) just to get to my office—hopefully still in one piece.
I belong to a lower middle class family. I never had a car. The best I had—closest to a car—was a second-hand 4 speed owner-type jeep my father purchased from a family friend eight years ago. The day my Dad bought that jeep, I thought, was the start of something even better. I dreamt of driving my own car and showing it off to my friends. I had the grandest plans. My car would even have a name: Tom-very smooth and masculine. I wanted Tom lowered, tint-less, his audio system and engine all pumped up, and upgraded every time there was something new in the motor store.
Tom would have been a sure way to get the ladies. Hot chicks dig hot cars. But my hot car, I am very sorry to say, will probably remain in my head for a much longer time.
About my jeep, she didn't really get anywhere except on weekends for running errands. It only embarrassed me whenever friends saw me driving a G.I. sheet with four wheels. Although I never harbored any feeling of fondness for her, I was able to gather enough compassion to give her a name. Her name, by the way, was Violeta. I got her name from her car paint when my Mom suddenly decided to dress her up with a rather unattractive mix of Violet and Indigo. In Tagalog terms, "kulay talong." Violeta's original upholstery was similar to what you'll find in the common jeepney. It's slippery, not necessarily soft, and it gave us that uncomfortable feeling whenever our sweaty skin touched it. We only had the seats changed when we accidentally passed by a surplus shop that obviously sold second hand (probably stolen, I didn’t really care) car parts. Violeta’s tires were three years old. Her mags were also second hand. Her seatbelts didn’t fit. They looked more like a sash than an instrument for safety—another junk material I should say.
My days with Violeta grew into a love-hate relationship. For quite a number of times, she failed me. Like a sickly, malnourished child, I’ve sent her to the mechanic more than the times I’ve called in sick for work. Once, I lost control of her steering wheel and sent us both to a vacant lot. Good thing nobody was hurt, most especially myself. There was even an instance when she lost her "bowel." For the first time in eight years, I felt really generous and fed her with Vortex to her tank's content. However, we experienced a major setback. Her fuel hose, just next to her tank right at her rear, collapsed and released every drop of what was given to her. Living up to her reputation, she chose the perfect spot to relax. The intersection of Ortigas and Edsa was just that. And there I was, dressed in a blue short-sleeved polo (I like blue. I like that polo.), laid under Violeta's bon-bon and struggled to give her a minor intestinal operation.
Of course I got scared. Just a speck of fire from a cigarette thrown anywhere closer than a foot would surely send my arse to kingdom come.
Aside from these two incidents, Violeta broke down for a quite a number of times that I didn’t even dare to recall anymore. It only frustrated me everytime I’d realize how much embarrassment and inconvenience she had caused me.
However, she also proved to be trustworthy a few times before. Although the streets of Fairview were never flooded, there was one fateful evening when the whole northern Quezon City was covered with rainwater reaching up to two feet. For some miraculous reason, Violeta was calm and strong. Just when every car was breaking down, she raged against the water and courageously raced along Regalado Avenue without even the slightest hint of giving up. I must admit, I was impressed.
Further, twice I fell asleep while driving. The first account, I was from Fairview bound to Diliman. My eyes felt heavy before driving through the Tandang Sora flyover. When I opened them, I was already in front of Iglesia ni Kristo—the far end of the flyover. The second time, I was with my Mom from my uncle's wake. At four in the morning, almost all my senses were aching to sleep. After a while, I found myself, my Mom, and Violeta tilted over a backyard of plants and bush. We were never harmed.
Call me sentimental, but I didn’t think I'd really want to replace Violeta over other exaggeratedly expensive cars. Our partnership may not have been perfect, but we surely spent the most memorable moments together. Certainly, we proved a lot of people wrong, and we could have gone for the next eight years to support this claim. Our relationship was not about glamour, showing off, or gaining pogi points. It was about loyalty and dependability.
And in case you'd find a Civic for only a hundred and fifty thousand pesos, let me know ASAP.
(Note: Violeta was sold for P65,000.00 a few months after this article was written.)
In my room
(2002)