Blazing through the Midwest in the dead chill of winter on four tiny wheels. Wheels attached to an engine, an engine attached to a frame, and I was at the helm. The car created a shimmering blue streak as it hummed through the snow on the highway. I had left Minnesota for the promised land of California and was approaching my destination for the evening, Cheyenne, Wyoming, the halfway point of a 2000-mile trip. As I pulled off onto an onramp and into the gloomy town, my hatchback made a few disconcerting pops and jolts before dying in place. Trapped between home and West Coast uncertainty, I was forced to leave the vehicle and save myself. The last moments with my car were tough; it was my first automobile, and I will never forget it.
My 1992 Subaru Justy was quite possibly the smallest car ever manufactured. It was about double the size of a household kitchen refrigerator, could hold no more than four small people and managed to fit into any parking spot size encountered. The volume of the Justy added a level of comfort akin to a well fitting pair of pants. The car was of perfect dimensions, not too baggy and not too restrictive. The cozy interior of the Justy possessed a magical quality regarding cargo. There always seemed to be just enough room for whatever I needed to lug around in the vehicle. If I needed to drive my computer across town, I would load it up through the Justy's hatchback and by some marvel of modern science it would just barely fit. When I needed to haul my computer and all of my earthly possessions (which matched the computer's volume times three) 2000 miles across the country, the Justy mystically expanded to make room for the larger load. It was such miracles that made the car so special.
The Justy's shell seemed to capture the blue brilliance of a cloudless sunny day. A glowing, blinding presence of the color accurately portrayed its attitude and power. Never hard to find in a parking lot, its beaming blue armor could reflect beyond all other automobiles. The Justy hated rust, but it was a battle it could not win, it still needed the help of its caring driver. The previous owner had allowed the orange stain to contaminate the blue metal. Armed with sandpaper and a spray can full of liquid primer I defeated the crumbling skin, stopping the infection from traveling throughout the body.
The interior of the Justy was a gray schemed mix of fabric and dark leather trim. These neutral colors evoked a tranquil feeling that added to its ease of driving. While the seats were well worn and comfortable, the dash and steering wheel's leather radiated with a polished intensity. There were no cracks or peeling of the leather as would be typical in an older vehicle; even the sun couldn't harm the Justy.
My obsession with the car brought a level of cleanliness that permeated it with a deep smell of Armor All and Windex. The carpet was never infected with mud or pebbles and the glass dodged all streaks or marks keeping a crystal clear shine. Dust feared the interior of the Justy. Like a hawk circling for prey, I would swoop down upon the unknowing filth and snatch it away in a moistened paper towel before it had a chance to blow away. The tiny, yet usable volume of the interior gave a cockpit experience to the driver's seat of the vehicle. The dials and knobs on the dash were designed and placed so perfectly that the car could be operated blindfolded. The shifter's style and orange 4WD button on top felt like the stick of a plane. Coupled with the power of the Subaru Justy engine, the sense of piloting a jet was present with every shift in gear. Blazing through the seasons of my life on four tiny wheels. Giving its best effort until it could run no more, it had the muscle, but it couldn't go the distance.
The Justy was more than a mode of transportation to me. It was my first home; a place I slept, where I could gather my thoughts, a refuge that no one could take from me, a place to dine, listening to music, driving with friends, making love in the back seat, and living through and with the vehicle. I would assume that a rusted-out shell of the Justy still rests somewhere in a gloomy junkyard buried in the annals of the Midwest. Its blue shade turning a muddy brown with every passing winter, sharing sadness with all of the other dead, forgotten cars. However, my Justy will never be forgotten.
