Does Love Mean Never Having to Replace a Water Pump?

Auto-eroticism or motor-headedness?

By Ed Goldman

While it’s probably premature to announce that my decades-long love affair with automobiles is kaput, my own car and I are currently undergoing a trial separation. 

What may have sounded to most mortals like, “You need a new water pump”—especially when spoken by the owner of Frank’s Automotive, a repair shop that’s been in business 50 years—to me sounded an awful lot like my car saying, “Maybe someday we could still be friends.”

As I sit one recent dreary afternoon in my home office I reflect on how, just a day ago, the room had been filled with, if not my car itself, at least the knowledge that it was nestled comfortably in my garage, 50 feet away, protected from the elements. Cozy, even. 

I wouldn’t say that in my 22 years of ownership I’ve been lavish in caring for my Mercedes E-320—but I definitely wasn’t withholding, emotionally or financially, reliably getting its oil changed, tires rotated and registration renewed.

I also made sure it got regular exercise. For example, during the darkest days of COVID I’d frequently take it for high-velocity spins, often changing lanes and even freeways repeatedly just because we could. 

I won’t deny this exercising also did my own psyche some good. Driving near-empty roads at near-warp speeds while imagining “Born to Be Wild” or “Hey Hey We’re the Monkees” playing in my head had a definite therapeutic effect. But it benefited both of us—and isn’t mutual caretaking what loving partnerships are all about?

I also admit that I haven’t been without my flaws as a partner. My car’s steering wheel cover (which, to my credit, I’ve replaced twice) looks like a feral cat mistook it for a chew-toy. Three minor side dents somehow escaped my scrutiny, especially when I squinted. And when its metal brand emblem was torn in half by someone doubtless seeking access to my trunk—where he could have found such treasures as a boxful of my most recent book, the never-consulted owner’s manual, my dad’s wool “car-coat” circa 1958, an ill-sized spare tire, an unplugged cassette player and a leather newsboy cap I always meant to slap on my head when my car and I took those high-velocity COVID drives—I confess I did nothing.

My feeble reason for not making these cosmetic fixes was always, “You look fine, years younger than your age and besides, nobody will notice”—whereas if candor had ruled the day, I’d have explained that the cost of replacing a metal emblem at a Mercedes dealership is prohibitive. Yet, to my credit, I wasn’t about to go to a third-party emblem seller who had no references, wasn’t bonded and kept changing his mailing address. My car deserved better than a backstreet accessory.