Inspired by the Odes of James Parker
My 2001 Toyota Camry is not especially blessed with the ability to communicate. It has no low tire pressure alerts, lane drift sensors, or please-don’t-back-into-that-pole alarms. But you, my dear check engine light, have been with me for years—long enough that I can’t even remember when you first blinked on. The moment would have been understated and silent when you tried to catch my attention with only your warm, campfire-orange light.
I know you’ve been there for at least four years. My boss at the time had a device that could interpret your code. One day he kindly offered to hook it up and determined that you were alerting me to some sort of emissions issue, but a mechanic friend of my parents said that was no big deal. And then you were gone. And for a moment I thought, “Ah, maybe the car has healed itself,” before remembering that only living things can heal themselves and that my car, although I sometimes talk to it as if it were a person, is not a living thing.
And of course, you, dear light, bloomed back into existence before too long. You’ve been with me ever since. Through daily commutes and holiday road trips, a steady companion shining beacon-like through even the darkest of nighttime drives. You’ve outlasted a few pairs of shoes and survived a global pandemic. I’ve known you longer than the person I currently live with. Proximity has bred familiarity. Familiarity has bred fondness.
But oh, of course, that is not your intent! You have been faithfully, tirelessly warning me of potentially grave danger, but instead of being propelled into action I’ve grown used to you—like the village grew used to the boy who cried wolf (only instead of periodically running around screaming, you’ve just sort of mumbled constantly and we ended up developing a fondness for you, grumpy little guy).
Obviously, I should get you checked out. Choosing to take comfort in your presence is like hearing a baby cry all day and thinking, “Wow, I love how still alive that baby is,” instead of trying to figure out what’s wrong.
But my car continues to run. While you are a reminder that something could be very, very wrong with my engine, my car has reliably taken me where I need to go every time for the last four years. You, light, are a reminder that lots of the time, lots of things work out just fine. A bump in the night is not always an intruder. An email from the boss is not always bad news. These are reminders that I need—I daydream about worst much more than best case scenarios. You have become an indicator of grit, endurance, and perseverance: even when things don’t look great, we can keep driving.
However, as comforting as your presence is, you would really be much more comforting if you went away. No lights is good lights, after all. But if you disappeared today, I would miss you. I’d miss seeing you patiently waving your orange flag out of the corner of my eye. I’d be relieved that there was no longer anything wrong with my car… and then I’d remember that cars can’t heal themselves and finally (I hope) take you to a mechanic.
Christina Ribbens (’19) graduated with a major in history and minors in studio art and data science. After working in campus ministry for a few years, she’s getting her master’s in public humanities at Georgetown University in Washington, DC. She has a benevolent dependency on tea, is always down for a game of pick-up basketball, and would love to have you over for pancakes sometime.
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This is so great. I truly despise that engine-light space between “it’ll be fine” and “what if it’s not.” Glad to hear I’m not alone!
Sometimes my check engine light turns off when the weather gets warm. When this happens I choose to believe that my car, just like my mood, wardrobe, and skin tone, had been healed by the warmth and freedom of summer.
Love the article 🙂 It’s also a reminder that my next car will be a Toyota, because my 2012 Chevy has no business being in the same state of beater-tude as your car that is old enough to remember 9/11.
Haha I love that—the healing power of summer touches all! And yes, I’m definitely team Camry. I have not invested in that thing’s health beyond the baaaare minimum and it’s still cruisin