milo

Among the many things I lost in August 2019 was access to a vehicle because the one I shared with my now ex-wife belonged to her. Over the summer, I’d occasionally driven my son and his fiancée’s 2010 CRV and liked it a lot. I decided that’s what I wanted. I went online and found several used CRVs available in the area where I was staying, which was the third-floor guest suite of my son’s fiancée’s father’s second home in a nice suburb of Boston. 

On the first day, at the first dealership I went to, I met Josh. Josh was a young African-American teenager originally from Brooklyn, New York. With his easy-going, confident approachability, he reminded me of the kids who’d welcomed me into their regular pickup basketball games at the playground where I’d been living before. I missed them. I liked him immediately.

Josh led me to a 2012 CRV. It was some kind of brown, but which kind of brown seemed to change from gray to copper to coffee to frozen dirt. It had 72,000 miles on it. We walked around it, and Josh explained what was great about the car. Not knowing much about cars and being motivated more by sensibility than sense, I didn’t take it in. The car looked like it was in good shape. It looked pretty new—shiny, even. So when Josh asked if I wanted to take it out for a ride, I was happy to.

As we pulled out of the dealership and began navigating the main strip, Josh asked me what prompted me to look at cars just now.

To understand my response, you have to know that I’d spent the last four months doing therapy five to seven times a week, during which experience I’d developed the habit of full and honest disclosure. This was less out of virtue than out of a desperate belief that honesty was the only avenue that would lead me out of the dark wood into which I’d imperceptibly strayed. Honesty, I believed with militant zeal, would lead back into the sunny clearing of openness and innocence I’d once inhabited. But, like most zealots, I was not great at calibrating my fervor to the match the moment.

“I’ve driven my life off the rails, Josh. I’ve lost my job and my career through a terrible mistake. My marriage is over. I don’t have a home right now. And our car was my wife’s, my ex-wife’s. So I’m at a crossroads and figure I should have a vehicle if I’m going to move on.”

Eighteen-year-old Josh, bless him, did not miss a beat.

“A new chapter then! I know I’m young, but in my experience, it’s not the adversity you face that defines you but how you respond to it. Sounds like you are trying to own your adversity and respond positively.”

“Thank you, Josh. That’s very encouraging to hear. You just sold yourself a car.”

Flustered, Josh reached up to open the sunroof as if to show me another feature of the car.

“Yeah, that’s great, Josh. But really, I’m good. I’m buying it.”

“What? Really?!”

“Yeah, really.”

“What the fuck?” Josh actually said this to me. I laughed.

“I know. But, kid, I’m raw right now, and you just touched my heart. I don’t have much else that I trust these days.”

“Aight. That’s real. I feel that.”

“I mean, maybe I’m making a mistake. I know it’s a weird reason to buy a car. My dad is rolling over in his grave. But honestly, it’s no worse than any of the reasons I’ve had for buying cars in the past. And it certainly can’t turn out worse than any of those decisions.”

Josh laughed.

“Sure you don’t want to check out something else?”

“Nope. I’m good. Let’s take it back.”

Naturally, despite my awkward best efforts, I could not knock anything off the price. I’ve never been very good at that game. And once Josh introduced me to his friend Reyna the business manager, Reyna became my friend too. My new friend Reyna convinced me to spend an extra few thousand dollars on an extended warranty that I never could figure out how to use. But that was okay, the three of us went out for a burger one night a few weeks later before we gradually slipped out of touch. Last I heard, Josh was back in Brooklyn selling furniture.

I named the car Milo after the young protagonist of Norton Juster’s novel The Phantom Tollbooth, who takes a life-changing road trip. At the time, I was just beginning to glimpse future road trips of my own in my new car. Also, Milo sounds sort of like “miles.” Milo’s been with me longer than any other car I’ve had: we’ve traveled over 70,000 miles and rolled through 34 states together, not to mention the thousands of strangers Milo’s ferried. 

Sometimes—for example, when I’ve just spent a couple thousand dollars on some repair, or when I plug my phone into the Apple CarPlay in my girlfriend’s new Honda Civic, or when I hear the whisper of my son’s hybrid CRV gliding up to get me for our weekly diner breakfast—I catch myself fantasizing about a replacement for Milo. But then I realize that’s just my mind playing tricks on me. Of course, one day, I know, I will have to replace Milo. But not today. Today, Milo meets all my needs and most of my wants. And, now, in my life, that’s more than good enough for me. 

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