Velma's song (Pt. I)

Who's gonna drive you home tonight?

The first time I saw Velma, I was standing in a used car parking lot. The owner, in a thick Armenian accent, was trying to sell me a black Honda Civic.

“Built like a tank,” he gushed.

But I couldn’t take my eyes off the burnt-orange Hyundai Veloster behind it.

I remembered that model from many years earlier, when I was covering the Toronto auto show for the newspaper. It was the year the Veloster had been introduced. Although I’ve never been a car aficionado, I remember looking at it and thinking, ‘Now, this is the kind of car I’d like to drive.”

She had these big, bug-eyed headlights, a smiling grille and a rounded body that tapered like a well-used bar of soap. There was just one big door on the driver’s side. But on the passenger’s side there were two.

The Veloster at the used car lot was pricier than the terminally tank-like Civic. She also had seen a lot more miles. But I could tell she had a soul.

Indeed, she spoke to me. You see, ever since I was a kid, I’ve felt a connection not only with animals, but also objects. I saw books and couches and even lamps, not as somethings, but as someones.

A mattress, for example, was crafted by people — people who poured just a little bit of themselves into its creation. Their joys, passions, even frustrations spilled into the fibres of that mattress. Occasionally, if it had a particularly negative journey from factory to bedroom, it would turn out to be a maladapted mattress — something that you just didn’t feel good sleeping on.

Cars too. They have a very long journey through the industrial birth canal — being touched by countless hands and spirits. They’re positively brimming with soul. Often, a car will also take on characteristics of their owner.

That’s why most pickup trucks you see on the road are assholes.

But not the spritely Veloster I spied that day in the lot. Like an old dog at the pound, she had ‘take me home’ written all over her.

So I did. I named her Velma — because it sounded like Veloster, and also she reminded me of my favorite weirdo from Scooby Doo.

As the first car I’ve ever owned, I was constantly admiring Velma. She had a very special mission too. I had just accepted a job offer in British Columbia — a solid gig as an editor. I was due to report there in three weeks. And guess who was going to take me on that 4,400 km journey to a new life.

At first, I could tell Velma was a little uneasy about her new situation. She didn’t know me at all. I assured her that we were going to be best friends. I’d be so good to her!

But I’m sure she couldn’t help but notice that I was smoking a lot of crack. In fact, our earliest voyages together were little more than runs to meet dealers. Even then, we had some powerful bonding moments. We listened to all of my favorite music together. I actually cried when a song by The National came on — and honestly, I couldn’t stop and had to pull to the side of the road to get myself together before seeing the dealer. She was cool with that.

Velma also had the honor of conveying my dog to the park one sunny day — it was the rare occasion that I visited Luna at her new home. Velma saw me weep a little on the way back to Hamilton too. I think she took on a little bit of my soul that day.

Don’t worry, I assured Velma. In just a few days, I’d set down the pipe for good and we’d sail to the New West. God’s country.

In the meantime, Velma was spoiled for suds at the carwash. She started to trust me. Sure, I was a bit wobbly, but I did my best to treat her right.

Just a few days before we were set to leave, I was gripped by self doubt. Did I really have what it took to be an editor? The team in B.C. seemed so excited to have me there. I just wasn’t sure I was worth it. My habit had really accelerated. Could I really leave that in the rearview mirror?

I wrote to tell my prospective employer that I wouldn’t be taking the job after all. Not for me at this time.

Breaking it to Velma wasn’t easy.

From there, my addiction approached terminal velocity. I woke Velma at all hours to zig-zag across the city. She had to ferry unpredictable and unmannered people around too. A woman overdosed on fentanyl in the back seat once and had to be revived at the side of the road. I scraped Velma against a pole, while parking at a convenience store. And once, I fell asleep in the midst of downtown traffic. I woke up to a heavy thump and the screech of Velma’s undercarriage as we drove over a concrete meridian.

As money got tight, I neglected Velma’s oil changes. I even used her as the getaway car for a couple of boosters — street kids who plundered thrift shops for whatever they could stuff under their coats. The indignity!

She also picked up a couple of newly released inmates from jail, who abused her in countless ways, while I remained silent. She got a flat tire on the highway. I reluctantly agreed with my passengers to just drive on it.

No one heeded my one rule — Please, no smoking crack in the car — and eventually, Velma’s interior became pockmarked with burns. Besides that, my passengers were always tearing up the upholstery, looking for fallen pebbles of crack.

When I was stopped at the Canadian border with a car-full of crack smokers, customs agents tore Velma to pieces.

Eventually, I couldn’t afford to keep more than a sliver of gas in her tank. So Velma stayed mostly parked at a public housing complex. It was the first time I’ve ever slept in a car. Velma tried her best to make me comfortable, leaning her seat as far back as she could. But it was brutally cold.

One day, a drug dealer named Shannon offered to buy Velma. She offered a little bit of cash and a large piece of dope. With winter coming on, I knew I’d have to figure out a new sleeping arrangement. And the dope would surely help.

So I said goodbye to Velma. She was the very last person who tried to protect me from the streets. After that, it was urine-soaked stairwells and bedbug-infested drug dens.

Months later, I went clean. But I kept thinking about Velma. Mostly because Shannon didn’t remove my license plates. So, every couple of days, tickets arrived in the mail. Shannon parked wherever she wanted. Velma was her full-time dealer-mobile. She also had a fondness for toll routes. It added up to hundreds of dollars.

Eventually, Shannon was arrested. Velma was towed to a police yard. An officer called to let me know.

“Can I get her back?” I asked.

“Just the plates, if you want them,” the officer replied.

Maybe Velma’s still impounded. She probably isn’t in the kind of shape that recommends herself to a new owner. No fresh start for her.

No, I think Velma heaved her last sigh in the wrecking yard. She took that little bit of my soul with her too.

I know what you’re probably thinking. It’s just a car. You made decisions and lost it.

But Velma was a victim, dragged along on this journey — and left at the side of the road. Like everyone else who tried to love me. She trusted me. I promised her I’d keep her safe. And, in turn, she took care of me when no one else would. How could she know the worth of a crack smoker’s promise?

I’m sorry, Velma. I hope you find a better friend in your next life.

Here’s that song we always used to listen to: