© 2003 Brian Hodges - Please do not remove the copyright from this essay

bought my Geo Metro used my last semester of college - the first major purchase of my life. I had just moved to California. I had no job or money for a down payment. No California I.D. I didn't even have an official residence yet. I was told my A.P.R. would be 25 percent. But, I bought it. It wasn't a gift. It wasn't my parents'. It was mine. Okay, technically, the car still belongs to the Visa people, but still.

It's nothing special. Just a short, black little thing with no power steering, windows, seats, or locks. The breaks do not anti-lock. It takes forever to accelerate, and threatens to overheat if I have more than two passengers. You have to shout to be heard over the engine at speeds exceeding sixty miles an hour. The side mirrors also rattle out of position at about that speed. It is a stripped down, no frills, just-need-something-to-get-around-in kind of car. But I feel about that Geo the way New Jersey natives feel about their home state: there's not much to be proud of, but I love it anyway. Besides, I get over thirty miles to the gallon in the city.

Beyond that, it's just a tough little car. I've taken that Geo places people are afraid to take their pick-up trucks. It's gone over the continental divide three times. There's a dent in the driver's side door from a chunk of falling mountain rock. There are pockmarks all over the shell from hailstones slung by an Oklahoma tornado. I'm sure the inside still has remnant sand left over from numerous trips into the desert. And even though it was born in the California sun, it has never let me down during a New Jersey blizzard. That Geo is the Joe Pesci of automobiles - small, but it'll kick anybody's ass.

I became the Master parallel parker in that car. Hollywood garage rates on an assistant's salary make one a quick study. The diminutive size made it easy to squeeze into any space that had a six-inch buffer. I actually got compliments from complete strangers. And let me tell you, parallel parking in a car that has no power steering, gives your arms definition you can't get from a personal trainer. The ladies loved it.

Yes, that car was a chick magnet. Okay, maybe not an electron magnet, but women can tell a lot about a man by the car he drives. And unlike those guys who drive Mercedes, Cameros and SUV's, a man who drives a Geo is obviously not trying to compensate for any other, ahem… shortcomings.

When I finally moved from L.A. to New Jersey, I managed to transport everything I owned in that Geo - with enough room left over to stretch out in my sleeping bag each night. (Hey, I was broke and unemployed. I couldn't afford the Motel 6.) Most people think that sounds pretty pathetic. I prefer to think of it as something Jack Kerouac would do.

The woman who would eventually become my wife took pictures of my Geo when we were dating. She told me she loved that little car I'd spent so much time driving her around in. Now that we're married, she keeps encouraging me to get rid of it. I fight her on it, but deep down I know she's probably right. With the prospect of a future family, cramming three kids into the back seat of a Geo Metro would probably be considered child abuse - especially considering there's no middle seat belt.

These days, it takes a little longer for the ignition to catch, the rattling has become more dramatic and the windows are popping out of their frames. I find myself wishing for a Ford Explorer. And yet, I know that when the time finally comes to trade up, it won't be easy. Some guys cling to a bachelor pad. I have my Geo. Perhaps I won't trade it in at all. Maybe I'll hang onto it just for the memories.

Or maybe I'll give it to some kid about twenty-one who just needs something to get around in. And before I graciously and reluctantly hand over the keys, I'll say with a catch in my voice, "Take care of it. It's been good to me."

I just hope by then I'll have finally paid off the Visa bill.