Every morning of my senior year of high school, Boo Radley took me to school.
Well, I guess I should be more specific. Boo Radley is a 1995 Buick Regal. We haven't been together long, but he was my first.
Before that, I didn't have a car, and for a long time, I didn't even have my license; so for all of sophomore and junior year, the daily challenge of my life, requiring strength of will and fortitude of mind, was finding a ride home for myself and my constant companion — a behemoth JanSport backpack.
In March of my senior spring, when I finally became a licensed driver, I knew it was time to end the strain on my frequently flighty carpool and long-suffering friends and begin the crusade for a car.
I have to admit, though, that this was no tale of vehicular love at first sight. In fact, shameful as it is, I didn't really want Boo in the first place. I fell in love with someone else — a shiny red Honda CR-V — and I proceeded to campaign my parents accordingly. But unfortunately for me (and the car dealer), they just weren't buying.
To my dismay, however, this wasn't one of the "Well, but what about your schoolwork?" or "I'm not sure if you're mature enough" kinds of parental defenses I have become adept at countering over the years. All my practiced techniques were stopped in their tracks by a charmingly phrased, completely indestructible wall: "Okay, you pay for your college tuition, and we'll buy your car."
Ouch. It's hard to argue with that one. Regretfully, I slid glossy car dealership brochures into the trash, un-bookmarked the "Build Your Honda!" website from my favorite places and tried to resign myself to life in the bike lane.
But wait: all hope was not lost, and it was waiting for me in my grandma's garage. She doesn't drive anymore, so my grandpa's old car had fallen into disuse alongside boxes of '50s kitchenware, my mom's report cards from elementary school and several thriving colonies of spiders. For six months, red tape threatened to ensnare us at every corner, but my parents and I finally overcame the various insurance companies and towing services blocking our path, and one August day, the car was sitting in my driveway. Boo had arrived.
Boo is white. He is fat. He is temperamental. He doesn't like the cold — on mornings when the temperature falls below 60 degrees, his gearshift adamantly refuses to move from park to drive. He has no CD player or automatic locks. He's got a few dents in him (my fault). He is named for Harper Lee's notorious recluse in "To Kill a Mockingbird," mostly because the two share initials (Buick Regal, Boo Radley), but also because I like to root for the underdog, and Boo Radley is definitely an underdog. Call him a rebel without a cause, a renegade, a relic of the past clinging on after his expiration date in a city where (new / nice / imported) cars are king and pedestrian traffic is nearing extinction. (And you can bet that the only other people in Los Angeles driving a '95 Buick Regal are nearing their extinction, too.)
Every morning of last year, Boo Radley took me to school, and he was a misfit from the beginning. Unstylish, unwieldy and unclean (though that last fact was preventable, I realize), he lumbered his way to the compact parking space allotted, where, with some struggle, we parked in between a BMW X5 and an Audi A4. Would Boo and Beamer like each other? Could Boo get along with Audi's friend Hummer? Instinctively, it would seem that this combination would have resulted in a veritable clash of the titans in the parking lot — or perhaps more accurately, a David vs. Goliath affair. But in all honesty, Boo fit right in — unless you're counting his backside, which stuck out a little farther than his small car compatriots.
Boo's a part of the family, joining the ranks alongside the yellow 1970 Chevy Camaro my mom drove for 15 years and my dad's brown Buick, Walter. Boo is full of sentimental value. My grandpa loved cars and kept him in perfect condition. He and Boo did 40,000 miles together.
Right now, Boo is in hibernation, holed up in that same garage that functioned as his Radley Place for so many years of disuse. He's awaiting the day I fly westward and pick him up for winter break wanderings. I won't lie — there are times when I cast an envious eye on Boo's more stylish friends, but for now, Boo gets me from place to place, and he's actually a good guy — at least I think so.
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