Death of a Honda
In 1919, William Butler Yeats wrote that “things fall apart.” It should not surprise that this axiom was written shortly after the advent of the modern automobile—the human invention that most powerfully illustrates its truth. Now be silent, friend, and read.
Sometimes bad things happen to the nicest cars. I knew a nice car once. Let me tell you of its fate.
It was a great car, at least as far as I could see. It was a grey Honda Accord, perhaps ten years old. Its owner had clearly taken pains to maintain it—its paint job was immaculate, its body unbesmirched by dents or rust.
It sat in the parking lot beneath my balcony, just like the thirty-three other vehicles I saw every day. In the eighteen months I’d lived in my building, not once had I reason to single that Honda out for special attention.
Then one morning, in late September 2000, that all changed. That bright morn I gazed down from my balcony and noticed that the Honda’s driver’s side window was smashed.
I went down to investigate. The driver’s seat was covered with broken glass, and in the middle of the dashboard gaped the dark, rectangular orifice that once sheathed the car’s audio system.
Alas! This fair, goodly Honda had been burgled in the night!
I was not the only one to take an interest in the Honda that day. Consider, for example, the big fat guy in the little red Jeep, who parked directly to the left of the Honda’s space. As he walked out to his Jeep that morning he did a double-take, as if to say:
“Zounds! The Honda in the space next to mine, which is usually nondescript, has been burgled!”
He paused for a moment to survey the damage, a look of concern upon his face, and then went on his way.
In this respect, we were all like the big fat guy in the little red Jeep. We all saw the broken window. We were all concerned about the burglary. In short, we all cared.
Then something odd happened. Or rather, didn’t happen.
For days afterward, nothing happened. The owner of the car, who lives somewhere in my building, apparently refused to intervene in the situation. He didn’t replace the stereo. He didn’t fix the window. He didn’t clean up the glass. He didn’t even put plastic over the broken window to protect the car’s interior from the weather.
Perhaps he was going through a difficult time in his life. Perhaps his Honda had been broken into before, and he was fed up. For whatever reason, he never drove his Honda again. I don’t think he even looked at his Honda again. He just left it out there in the parking lot, where it slowly, gracefully, began to disintegrate.
Weeks passed. September became October, and summer turned to fall. The Honda remained, unmoved. The rains came, bringing with them winds and showers of autumnal debris. The Honda remained, accepting nature’s twiggy offerings with tact and aplomb.
October became November and the Honda’s insurance lapsed, further sealing its fate. Now it could not be casually driven off the premises for repairs. The wind and rain continued, sucking this once goodly vessel further into the quagmire of decay.
November became December, and fall turned to winter. The other residents had long before ceased in their concern for the Honda’s plight. The big fat guy in the little red Jeep, eyes long overgrown by the thick crust of apathy, no longer gave it a second glance.
On his daily migrations to and from his parking space, he would simply walk past as if to say:
“Alas, the Honda in the space next to mine, which is usually burgled, remains burgled, and I care not.”
December became January, 2000 became 2001, and the Twentieth Century became the Twenty-first. On the night the world boldly entered the third Christian millennium, I emerged onto my balcony in a pleasant marijuana haze, and emotionally toasted the Honda as it languished, ever stoic, ever dignified in its silent neglect. It was entering its second millennium of official abandonment, but thanks to me, it wasn’t alone as it faced the abyss.
Not long after that, I made a second trip down to the parking lot to pay homage.
After three and a half months, the scene was remarkably undisturbed. The broken glass remained on the driver’s seat. The cut wires of the stolen stereo still dangled from the dashboard. The junk in the cubbyhole under the glove compartment was unrifled. Since the day of the break-in, this Honda had not once known the warm touch of a human hand.
The cold hand of Nature, however, had moistly fondled every nook and cranny. The plush driver’s seat, soaked through with the rain, had become an aromatic sponge of equal parts algae and mildew. The seat, floor and dashboard were covered by a fine patina of twigs and needles blown in by the wind. And upon the darkened windshield, the thick blindfold of fallen leaves formed a haunting inscription:
“Look upon this Honda, ye suburbanites, and despair.”
January become February, and still the Honda remained. It showed unending grace under water, and my admiration only grew for this exquisite conveyance—abandoned by its master, just like the Romans abandoned the great Coliseum 1500 years ago.
Verily, though this noble Honda was far from monumental, it was, nonetheless, a monument.
Then finally, one Saturday morning in early February, the saga of the decomposing Honda came to an abrupt end. As I slaked my morning thirst with a flask of lacteous secretion, I looked down from my balcony to witness the arrival of a tow truck.
Who summoned this godless wraith, I will never know. Before my eyes, that brave, festering, Japanese two-door was slowly hoisted up on its front wheels and hauled away, never to return.
Looking back on it now, I think this little fable teaches us more than just a simple lesson about Hondas. Indeed, I think it stands as a lesson about cars, and perhaps even motor vehicles in general.
Dear reader, it takes real courage to abandon a perfectly good car. Courage I don’t think I have.
To the owner of that Honda, and everyone else who has consciously permitted a quality motor vehicle to fall into ruin: I salute you. •
Originally published in The Peak, May 7 2001. For more mock-heroic automotive musings, check out this piece’s unofficial prequel Please refrain from flash photography.
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