Dani is short for Danny DeVito: the trash can, the pole, and the amazing Novice & Pro

     That is not a lie. I named my car after Danny DeVito. Because she is short, ugly, but I love her and she just will not quit. And, like Matilda, my Dani has also taught me valuable life lessons.

    Picture this, everyone. Let's take a journey.

    My car is clear, I am fine. The Weekend of Music-- Taylor Swift night & emo night!-- is about to begin.

    Taylor Swift night is me driving myself since no one I know is going, and no one wanted to go. I hate parking garages, but then again I've never been very good at driving on the Strip, since half the paint is faded and I can't tell what lines my car is supposed to follow. Instead of circling for parking, I opt for the parking garage. which. is. PACKED.

    I go straight to the upper levels, which is usually my tactic for two reasons: no one likes the upper levels, and it's easier to remember that I parked my car on the highest bloody floor of the tallest bloody tower-- can anyone tell I just watched Shrek 2?-- than it is to remember a random specific middle floor. My car doesn't have an electronic key fob, I can't just hold the button to my chin and press panic.

    While I'm driving to the top, I get lost. The signs are pointing very vaguely, and turns I thought would lead me upstairs instead take me to one way passages, where I have to awkwardly do a 280 point turn while looking massively awkward. To get to the upper levels, before anyone asks, you have to cross the entire floor. It's not like McCarran Airport, where you can just keep circling up. 

    On my way up, I'm making a left. The douchebag making a right is entirely too close to my side, and I panic. I haven't had Dani for long, and I don't want to end up in a car accident in the fucking LINQ parking garage. I make sure Dani and I give that man a wide berth.

    I see the trash can.

    I attempt to make a very tight turn.

    I see the trash can.

    I see the trash can.

    My turn isn't tight enough.

    I see the trash can I see the trash can I see the trash can.

    My car collides with the trash can.

    Just her passenger headlight, and not even very hard-- I was only doing like 10mph, if that. A turn, in a parking garage? I was lucky I got over 1 mph, that's how slow it was.

    My heart absolutely broke. She was fine, sure, but how did that excuse what I'd just done? What I just did to my best friend? I wanted to go home, but thought I had to stick it out longer, and then Dani's sacrifice would not have been in vain. So I found a spot.

    I saw the pole first, and the souped up truck second. It was a tight spot, but it was the only spot. I vowed to make it work.

    Making it work involved scraping Dani against the pole, apparently. My heart fucking shattered. She wasn't scratched, but paint had come off the pole and onto her, and my heart was just empty. Hollow. I ruined my best friend.

    When I started her up after that, her battery light would come on, and then turn off after a minute. But not every time. Sometimes no battery lights at all. It wasn't a good sign, I knew, but my mechanics were closed on Sundays, so I swore to Dani that I'd take her in on Monday if she could just make it through the weekend for me.

    While I was waiting, I decided to poke and prod to see if I jostled any wires or connections, and that's when it occurred to me. The only part related to the battery that I hadn't changed was the alternator, and it was something they told me I'd have to end up replacing eventually.

    My mechanics don't charge me for inspections anymore, but I was still curious and had some spare time. I didn't know how to jack up a car, and to be honest, I still don't know, so I just wiggled underneath Dani to poke around the other side. Damn, she's rusty.

    I took her in, and lo and behold: the alternator. They explained: "The alternator is starting, charging the car, then dying. Starting, charging the car, then dying. Over and over again."

    So my alternator can die but I cannot? Rude.

    I was a little impressed that my alternator refused to quit and kept functioning, even if barely. Dani literally will run her parts into the ground for me. Not ideal, because I'd fix them if I had warning, but pretty selfless of her. The car equivalent of me running myself into the ground for people and then pretending I don't need anything absolutely not ever.

    Maybe she learned that from everyone telling her she's a burden.

    Alternator is fixed. I took Dani home, but panicked. Something was wrong. What was wrong? I brought her to the mechanic again, where I said something's wrong and begged them to run a systems check on everything: did I drain the battery?

    No, they assured me. Everything is running fine.

    It occurred to me on the drive home that I have never driven my car with a new alternator before. So of course, I wouldn't know what it feels like. But I still don't trust myself. Every new noise of hers is met with the same scary concentration I give people who call her ugly. I can, because I dedicate so much of my life to her. No one else can say the same, I've made sure of that. She is mine.

    While the man was running the test, Alex pulled me to the passenger side of my car. He said, "You didn't notice."

    "Notice what?"

    He pointed to where the pole had scraped my baby. The paint is gone. They buffed it out for me, Alex explained, because they had time and knew it bothered me.

    I cried about that later. When will anyone care about me like my mechanics care?

    The same day I picked her up, job one let me off early. We had a COVID outbreak and a lot of people had to quarantine-- I'm vaccinated so I didn't, but a lot of the kids weren't coming in because they either weren't allowed to or their parents didn't let them. I decided to knock some errands out while I had my car.

    I picked up the new lug nuts for her three different tires that were only missing one each. The guy at AutoZone says that he sees that when someone's stolen the tires. I was like, "dude, I don't know. I bought her like this." He said I should buy a lug nut wrench, not just use theirs, and I agreed, but only because it's a solid piece and I think I could brain someone with it.

    I picked up a new radiator cap, because Alex said mine was getting pretty old. I haven't installed it yet because you have to have the car cool for a while, and it's super sunny out from like six am on, and I'm not trying to boil my own eyebrows off.

    When I put the lug nuts on, I decided to wash her tires. Only her tires, because the car washes like to ignore that. I didn't have a bucket, I didn't have a hose. I had my niece's pink plastic sand truck. A couple pieces popped off, and voila

it's the fact that i ignored the dishes in the sink for me.

    The water was disgusting by the time she was clean. I put some protectant foam on her tire sidewalls, I scraped some bird poop off, and dumped the water out. It was filthy black, but she was clean.

    If she could talk, I'm sure my car would've said something to the effect of a thank you to me. Maybe running herself into the ground without complaining was how she thought I wanted my thanks. 

    I found out, though, that July 25, 2020 is when I brought my car in for her very first repair: a new serpentine belt and a catalytic converter.

    I think I'm going to bring them a case of Gatorade, and a thank you card. "For when you helped me even though I was sobbing on the phone and in an entirely different state..."

    Hallmark, call me. I think mechanics are a demographic you're totally missing.