Monday, July 2, 2012

The Black Beetle

The old car Dad bought when I was six greeted me when I visited my Dad's garage. The black beetle still shined luxuriously under the dusty car cover, as Dad made sure Betty, as what he used to call her, got the royal treatment that she deserved.

Betty the Black Beetle was our first car. She was old, yes, but Dad was really proud of her. We've been on long trips and she never failed Dad. Mom kinda felt jealous of the car since Dad spent a lot of time making Betty beautiful.

But today, it would be my task to make sure she's going to be worth a thousand bucks.

I'll be selling Betty.

If Dad was alive, I'm certain he'd be heartbroken. Well, if he was, I bet there won't be an easy way of talking him out of it. When I grew up, I insisted that he should let Betty go and just get a new one but he always said no. He said that Betty's the only one he ever needed - that no one can ever make him sell her.

Not in a million years. I remember him telling me and Mom.

It was two years ago when he passed away and I pretty much felt guilty about it. I never had the courage to tell him how much I loved my father, not even close to telling him how much I appreciated him being around.

I guess he died without knowing.

I wiped the dust away and started cleaning Betty. The white leather seats were still in prime condition, as if it was never used. The smell made me remember when I used to drive with Dad - the Sunday afternoons when he used to bring me to the park where we get hotdogs and ice cream.

It was Betty who brought me to the prom. She was also there when I graduated. She was there when I moved out of the house - with Dad telling me that I can go back home anytime I wanted. I just smiled at him that day, as the excitement of finally being away from your parents seemed priceless.

If given the choice, I would have returned home and spent my life with them. As their only child, I bet losing me was kinda painful for them.

I opened the engine hood at the back and checked the oil and the wirings. Everything looked great - as if Betty didn't age at all. I started the engine and she hummed the same way she used to sound like when I was little.

I was on the phone with the buyer when I opened the front hood. The buyer was asking how was Betty and where and what time we will meet tomorrow. The spacious hood made me remember that I used to hide here and that Dad got mad when I wrote something under the hood.

I wondered if it was still here, I thought to myself, wondering what the kid in me did before. In a few seconds, I found it - and in that split second, I cancelled the deal.

The buyer was surprised to hear that I wouldn't be selling Betty anymore.

Not in a million years, I told him as I smiled, realizing that I sounded like my Dad.

I touched the scribble I left under the hood years ago, and right there and then I realized why Dad never wanted to sell Betty - and most of all, how Dad knew how much I loved him.

2 comments:

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