The Mazda Doesn't Know
A 2009 hatchback, three plates, eighty-eight thousand eight hundred eighty-one miles, and one bad week in May.
Yesterday, you pulled into a CVS parking lot somewhere in Castro Valley because if you didn’t close your eyes for ten minutes, you weren’t making it back to Fremont. It’s late morning. You’ve been at it since the night before helping your friend use AI to prepare evidence for his lawyers, a long detour involving a guy who recorded himself surrounded by five mirrors, which was a thing that actually happened, in this life, the one you’re currently driving home from.
The car is a 2009 Mazda3 Sport Hatchback. You bought it from CarMax in Miami-Dade County, Florida, on July 14, 2012, for $11,813.76. You paid $246.12 a month for forty-eight months. What can you say? You keep notes.
The odometer says 88,881.
In August 2024, you took it to Aztek Auto Repair for a smog inspection. The technician — Jose Antonio E. — wrote you a list:
Two engine mounts broken. One transmission mount broken. Coolant tank leaking, requires replacement of the reservoir. Valve cover gasket leaking oil. VVT solenoid gasket leaking. Mass Air Flow sensor damaged. Noticeable suspension noise.
He cleaned the MAF sensor enough to get the car through smog. Everything else, he wrote, was “the underlying cause.”
The engine mounts eventually got fixed — two years later, in the condo parking spot, by Jeff and Daniel — no shop, no receipt, illegal.
You did not get the transmission mount fixed.
You did not get the coolant tank replaced.
You drove the car.
You’re still driving it.
The plate has changed three times. The first was Florida — back when you lived in Miami and had a different idea of what the next decade was going to look like. Then a California plate when you moved back to be near Dad, who was still lucid, still in the house on Camden. Then a different California plate — 9XXX555, the one bolted on now. The car has been three different cars depending on what state you were in. The car never asked you why.
You drove it through the Florida Keys, turquoise water on both sides for 68 miles. A month after the breakup, you drove from Miami up I-95 and kept driving north, through Jacksonville, then Savannah and Columbia and Asheville, and spent some time in a bit of America that neither the Bay Area folks nor the Miami folks get to see too often, and may never get to see again.
You drove it to the car carrier in Miami, the one that transported it across the country in one shot. You paid the driver a little extra because you may have packed some additional things in the car you shouldn’t have. There was the week your car was “borrowed” five extra days beyond your knowledge and got unceremoniously returned with a bunch of drug paraphernalia and mud and bullet casings inside. (Yeah, we don’t associate with that guy anymore.) You drove it to Dad’s appointments. To Mom’s house. You drove it to Fremont Village, the facility you eventually had to move him into. Back to Mom’s house, which was four blocks away anyway. You drove it home from Fremont Village more times than you can count, including the last time, when there was nothing left to drive home from.
You drove the Mazda over to Mom’s this morning to start vacating Dad’s room — Fremont Village wants it turned over before they release the refund. None of this registers with the car. The car does not know that Dad is gone. The car does not know that you closed your eyes somewhere in Castro Valley yesterday and woke up not entirely sure how long you’d been out. It smells, faintly, like a hatchback that has been driven through Miami summers, Bay Area winters, and one funeral.
It has watched all of it.
It doesn’t know.
Daniel’s car got towed last week. A 2013 white Hyundai Sonata, plate 8AAA666. Nine hundred dollars to get it out. You ate the cost, the way you eat costs, the way the car eats potholes. The Mazda is, currently, the only car in your orbit that hasn’t been a referendum on someone else’s bad night.
This is what it means to own a car for nearly fourteen years. It stops being a car. It becomes the thing in your life that doesn’t need anything from you — the way most things do, all the time, in increasing volume.
Except the engine mounts.
And the transmission mount.
And the coolant tank.
But those have held.
You’re not making a metaphor. The car is a car. It has 88,881 miles. It uses 5W-20 oil. The front tires need 35 PSI. It has, by any reasonable accounting, been falling apart since 2024, and it has, by the same accounting, gotten you exactly where you needed to go every single time.
The next thing you’ll have to look up isn’t the odometer. It’s a date on a death certificate. They have them in El Cerrito. There’s no hard due date.
You ordered them mailed.
The car stayed in the driveway.
"Sending hugs" seems really insufficient, but ... there it is. Sending hugs.
Sounds like a good and loyal friend, that car.