My sister Du had ‘catch & release’ boyfriends who later became pals of mine. As if I sorted through her discard pile for chums, too introverted to find friends of my own. 2nd-hand friends are cheaper energy-wise. Plus they’ve already been vetted. They only needed to appreciate gallows humor.

One of her exes & I were in a band called Drama Bums (after Kerouac’s Dharma Bums, not a favorite author but I liked the name). We made odd music, maybe like a slightly altered Robin Williams line: a combination of jazz & punk we call ‘junk.’ Being silly made band more fun than if we’d taken it seriously. I had zero interest in performing. Just being out in public without screaming is performance enough for me. So we made up songs & recorded them on a portable 4-track unit. Then we’d play them back & laugh.

Another of my sister’s castoffs was Paul. We had some things in common: doing the NY Times crosswords, his collection of animal skulls that I envied, & the making of art. He gathered a gaggle of artists for figure drawing sessions. I was the model. Every artist paid a few bucks for me to stand or sit still in the nude. The most challenging was ‘still.’ My twitchy, nervous energy usually took motionless off the table, yet nude was only uncomfortable for the first few minutes. Living in the PNW I’ve been cold most days of my life. The room had to be heated to sweltering for me to even consider it. I imagined the artists dripping sweat & gumming up their charcoal & paper as they sketched. It passed the time while frozen in place, bored by my own thoughts.

Like many a hetero male, Paul had a prying fascination with my sex life. To my irritation. He was a huge Springsteen fan, so he tried to get me talking about it by saying “I’m not gay, but I’d turn for Bruce.” I told him “I’m sure Bruce would be thrilled to know. & gay doesn’t work that way.” Then he said “What about clones? Wouldn’t gays fantasize about having sex with themselves?” I grimaced “How vain do you think I am?” then added “I’m sure they already know what it’s like, alone.”

“Ooh, can I–” I cut him off “If you say ‘watch’ I will put out an eye.”

We mostly had other conversational topics, both loved words & wordplay, shared an aesthetic appreciation for various trees, birds, animals. Only now & then would he veer into licentious territory, delving for details of girl-on-girl action. It was a game to him, but he was ever hopeful. Persistence in some people is not a virtue.

A few times we rode somewhere in his boss’s vintage Citroen. I was surprised his boss let him drive this unusual French car with a hydropneumatic suspension system. Even more surprised when later said he totaled it. He survived not only the wreck but, what I guessed, his boss’s wrath. When he asked to borrow my ’58 Ghia I was more ambivalent than outright opposed. He already crashed someone else’s car. What’re the odds he’d do it again?

There were other factors. I could barely keep proper maintenance of myself, let alone a vehicle. I didn’t have a license. & something was ailing the battery (or starter or whatever) & it had to be bump started: Key the ignition to ‘on,’ in 2nd gear depress the clutch & get it rolling downhill, then release the clutch to make the engine turn over. This required more than just me to drive anywhere since I couldn’t get the car rolling fast enough by myself. Paul said he would fix it in exchange for the loan. Possible, I thought. Probable was not a given.

So I agreed. I felt like a negligent car parent anyway, ignoring the needs of my little auto because I was too much of a flake to take it to a vet [mechanic]. Animal behaviorists caution against anthropomorphizing creatures & plants. Many of us do that with inanimate objects as well. Good luck making us stop.

About 2 weeks later Paul calls me with “Your car’s been stolen.”

“Huh?” I say.

“I parked it right in front of my building & when I came out it wasn’t there.”

“Seriously, Paul. What the fuck?”

“It was parked legally, so I don’t think it was towed,” he adds as if that’s better.

Sigh. “But the key’s still needed to compression start it.” I’m hoping he doesn’t say what I think he’s about to say.

“Well, I figured no one would try to swipe a car that didn’t start. So I left the key in the ignition.”

My image of Paul’s cerebral activity has now flatlined.

He goes on “I mean, who would steal a car that has to be pushed to start?”

Nevertheless. There is a point at which you realize others’ views on how to treat borrowed items may not mesh with your own. This was that point.

I filed a police report. About 6 hrs later they called to say “Your car was found in the faculty lot of Cornish College of the Arts. It’s been ticketed for illegal parking.”

“Oh,” I reply. “Thanks, I guess.”

Paul came with me to help push the car. After it was running he said “So, can I still borrow your car?” I wish I had his nerve. This time I knew the risks & still said yes. What was I going to do with it? I didn’t have the brawn to push it alone, nor the money for its upkeep. & he did claim he’d get it fixed. Again. The car’s illness was sounding its death knell being in my hands, much as I hated to admit.

That would be the last time I saw my fluorescent blue car. Got a belated message from impound that it was going up for auction left on the answering machine of a number I no longer lived at. The date had already passed. I didn’t hold it against Paul. Even though I thought of my Ghia fondly like a pet, it was still a material possession. Obviously I’m not that materially inclined. It’s a rare chance to feel less irresponsible than someone else. A pyrrhic victory, but it is mine.