Charles

 

Charles
by Dave Wright

I was lying on my back. Charles was on top of me. Gravel ground into my back as I attempted to squirm into a more comfortable position. I squinted to get a better view of his belly.

We were having another spat. I shouted, “I’m just trying to help you.”

My efforts were rewarded with a trickle of warm fluid that ran down my forearm. “Is that pee?”

I never liked Charles, but he was my wife’s first love, so I put up with him…for a time. She claimed their relationship was plutonic. I had my doubts. He came into our relationship like a favorite pet. How could I refuse to adopt him?

The love of my life at the time was The Doba, a regal ‘76 Chrysler Cordoba with a hood ornament so far away it was out of focus from the driver’s seat. Charles first met The Doba in the Eustis Avenue apartment parking lot. Charles threw an immediate fit of jealousy. Charles was the color of a rotting cherry. The Doba sported a sparling tan exterior with a two-tone vinyl roof. Charles complained about the heat in the summer. The Doba basked in air-conditioned comfort. Charles put up such a fuss in the winter, he passed gas trying to warm up. The Doba heated without a complaint.

It was our first date. The woman who was to become my wife less than a year later waited impatiently in the second-floor apartment. Sue had made our reservations:  Same Time Next Year at the Chanhassen dinner theater. (Sue could call locally at no charge; I would have had to pay for a long-distance connection. She knew me well already.)

Mid-May was unusually hot and humid, but we each dressed to impress. Sue wore a long formal flower-print dress, and I was buttoned up with a paisley tie. I held the passenger door of The Doba for Sue and hiked the block and a half around the front of the car to proudly take my seat at the wheel. I started the engine and turned on the AC. Nothing. “Darn.” (Damn would have been more appropriate, but I had an impression to make.) “The air was working yesterday,” I said as my face warmed to the outside temp.

“I could take you if you’re not up to the task,” smirked Charles from the parking space next to us.

“Not in your life,” mumbled The Doba as we pulled away from Charles and watched him diminish in the rearview mirror.

 “Sorry,” I said, loosening my tie. “Guess we’ll have to use the electric windows.” I pushed the button on the armrest and activated the windows. I settled into the velour seat with my pride restored. The Doba rolled south on 35W.

“Do you know where you’re going?” asked Sue, who politely ignored the wind whipping her hair into a froth.

“I think so. I checked a map before I left: 494 west. Continue on Highway 5 to Chanhassen. The rest should be easy.”

It was not. The Doba snooped into every Chanhassen alley and circled the dinner theater several times. By now we were both sweating. We managed to stumble into the venue moments before we were to be seated.

I was thinking of that first date as I wiggled from under Charles and wiped the drain oil from my arm. I had been attempting to change his oil and was lying in the street next to the curb with Charles parked above me—two of his wheels on the boulevard and two wheels in the street. It allowed just enough room for my head and shoulders to squeeze beneath the undercarriage and loosen the bolts to drain the oil.

A Volkswagen Beetle does not have an oil plug like a normal vehicle. Instead, it has a circular plate with six bolts. You have to remove all six bolts to drop the plate and remove the oil filter, a rinky-dink metal cup that looks like a kitchen strainer. The VW engineers knew that no one would bother to clean the filter if they didn’t design it this way, so every time the oil is changed you have to let oil run down your arm to drain the crankcase—one of Charles’ many charms.

After Sue and I were married, Charles and I negotiated a tenuous peace agreement. As long as Charles delivered Sue safely to work, I would change his oil and pump his gas. I felt that Charles broke our agreement when he spun out on Highway 218 in a snowstorm, landing Sue in the ditch. Sue forgave him. I was less eager to dispense absolution.

Charles was relegated to curbside parking while The Doba lounged in the comfort of our single-car garage. Charles’ jealousy turned to euphoria when he heard a rumor that The Doba was to be traded.

The Doba had served its purpose, and it was time for him to go. He got me the girl of my dreams and delivered luxury travel for the duration of our ten-month courtship. Early on Friday afternoons when I didn’t have to work the weekend, I plugged in autopilot from Blooming Prairie to Duluth and sat back for the three-and-a-half-hour trip to Sue’s doorstep.

But a canoe just didn’t look right on a vehicle that (if you were far enough away) could have passed for a Caddy. Furthermore, The Doba sniffed its nose at the thought of carrying bicycles and camping gear. He was replaced by a new Chevy-Luv pickup with an insulated topper. Charles cheered as he waved goodbye to The Doba for the last time.

It wasn’t long however, that the Luv’s brilliant red finish took a toll on Charles’ self-confidence. His rusting running boards and faded paint looked shabby in comparison. Charles needed counseling or a facelift.

My dad, who had taken a liking to Charles, offered both. He took him into the shop, patched his rusty sidewalls, painted him a brilliant blue, and nursed his bruised ego.

A few months after “Charles The Painted” emerged from the shop and his romance with my wife had been rekindled, my brother needed to borrow a car. Wanting to offer the same family generosity as my dad, Sue handed over the keys.

My brother is as unlucky as Job. An hour later I got a call: “I’m so sorry. I didn’t do anything. Really.”

“What happened?” I asked with a sigh.

“Your VW died on I-94 on my way into the Cities. I heard a noise and the engine just quit.”

“Sorry it had to happen to you, Bro. I’ll send a tow truck.”

Sue and I talked it over. What should we do about Charles’ latest fall from grace? We decided that a new paint job would look out of place in the junk yard, so I had Charles delivered to a client whose hobby was repairing Volkswagens. A week later he reported that Charles needed a new engine.

“How much?” I asked.

“About a thousand dollars,” came the reply.

“Ugh…We need two cars. Go ahead.”

“Charles The Resurrected” carried Sue around town for the remainder of the year. But by then we had accrued a child, and Sue was losing her infatuation with her one-time lover. Leaning over Charles’ folded front seat to strap a kid into a car seat felt like she was stuffing him into a cubbyhole. Sue agreed to a separation. Charles went up for sale.

Weeks went by, hoping we would get an offer worth our investment in a new engine and a new paint job. When a prospective buyer heard our asking price for a VW Bug that old, they dropped the phone before they hung up.

My patience with Charles was reaching a new low when I thought of another idea: Our church was sponsoring a Vietnamese family who had emigrated to the U.S. They needed a vehicle. I needed a deduction. We could donate Charles to the church, I reasoned, and the church could give it to the family. We would get a tax write-off for its true value, and the family would get a much-needed vehicle.

Early in December, I drove the car to the church parking lot.

A week later, I called our pastor with an emergency message: “Wait, wait! My accountant says I don’t need a deduction this year, but I will definitely need one next year. You can’t give the car to the family until after the first of January.”

January second arrived in typical Minnesota fashion. A frigid clipper had blown in from the Arctic. I was loading my veterinary truck to return to work after the holiday when I got a call from our pastor. “Dave,” he said, “your car won’t start.”

I groaned and said I’d stop after work to investigate. My hands were numb as I shoveled the snow from around the car in the fading light. The door creaked as I slid into the frozen vinyl seat—hopefully for the last time. I turned the key. Nothing. A dead battery.

Was God trying to tell me something? Did he realize that my motive for this gift was pagan selfishness, not Christian generosity? A pang of guilt overshadowed my desperation to be rid of Charles forever. I could try to jump-start him and drive away. After all, the weather was terrible. Or I could do the honest thing and replace the battery.

I pulled a wrench from the toolbox in my truck, leaned over the back seat, and fumbled with the nuts holding the cables to the battery. My fingers had gone from numb to paralysis as I dragged the battery from its backseat cave and put it in the truck.

Napa was still open, so I took the old one in, spent another fifty bucks for a new battery, and returned to the dark parking lot to install the replacement. One final insult from Charles as we parted company.

Charles haunted me for the next couple of years by appearing unexpectedly around town.  Rumor has it that he eventually escaped to Los Angeles. Maybe he’ll return to haunt me again from a scene in the back lot of Paramount Pictures.

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