loose change

today’s piece is a little different. it’s an ode to sanch, the beloved vehicular counterpart i named in eighth grade after a spanish project about mark sanchez. my parents bought the truck in 2002 in ventura as a repo with 8600 miles on it. i grew up with this truck, and i grew to love it more than my childhood self could’ve imagined. after my parents’ divorce, i inherited sanch. my deepest gratitude for that, and to those of you who read this piece in entirety .

i brought the truck into a shop on gutierrez street on october 15th, expecting to have him back in two-ish weeks. i’ve known for three or four years now that the transmission would have to be pulled–rick, the only mechanic i’d ever really trusted with sanch, had patiently explained the malady to me in great detail. there’s a bearing in the middle of your transmission, the pilot bearing. it’s faulty. he grabbed an old receipt and started sketching it out for me. transmission, input shaft, pilot bearing.

the truck was lifted in rick’s garage, a solo-mechanic shop in the back of a volvo repair spot on salsipuedes street. he turned it on and pressed the clutch in, then took it off. you hear that? he asked. he pushed the clutch in again, and when he released, a high frequency humming sound droned over the sound of the engine. that’s the bearing. you’ll need to have the input shaft replaced. i was freaked out. what’s my timeline? is it dangerous to drive? how will i know when the fix is urgent? this truck had been an extension of my personality for over ten years–i was 21 at the time and dreaded the idea of losing him.

it’s hard to say, rick said. you just need to monitor the sound. it’ll get worse as the bearing corrodes. you’ll probably notice it disappear when you’re in fourth, it’ll be loudest in first and second. it’s a big job–they’re gonna need to take the transmission off, open it all up, find you a new input shaft, and piece it all back together. i don’t know if i’ll be the guy to do it; it depends on the other jobs i’ve got when the time comes. i asked, what’s the worst that could happen? how will i know when the bearing fails for good? he smiled gently. he was so accustomed to my incessant need to understand the ins-and-outs, so patient when translating mechanic language into something i could visualize and understand. you might hear some kind of crunching noise, but it’s unlikely. i wouldn’t go on any long trips until you get it fixed.

i took his inconclusive answer as permission to sit on it for a while, until i’d saved enough money to comfortably pay for it. i put it out of my mind, even, i got used to the high pitched whirring noise that threatened the longevity of my beloved truck. but it drove me crazy, and any time i wasn’t in gear i’d floor the clutch to preserve that bearing just a while longer, to cease the humming noise that filled the cab. even with my music at full volume, windows down, the sound haunted me.

one year passed and i allowed the repair to stay at the bottom of my to-do list, letting it exist in my brain as something i’d take care of in the distant future. i started driving another car, a subaru, and refused to sell the truck. i hated this new car. it felt like driving a golf cart. it was like sitting in a spaceship. if you used the key to unlock the door instead of the fob, the alarm would blare, causing everyone within fifty feet to look around as my face grew hot and red. the trunk was hydraulic, and i convinced myself that it was a grand inconvenience. if you left the door open for more than an hour, you’d need a jump–i learned the hard way while packing for a road trip. all of the lights were LED, the radio was a touchscreen that began to delaminate a year into owning it, the faulty computer drained my battery so quickly that i’d bought two new ones before realizing the issue wasn’t with the battery itself. i’d exhaustively explained to the guys at the dealership that it wasn’t the alternator, either. it was the gps on the car–it never shut off. there was a class action lawsuit regarding it.

i hated myself for hating this car. i felt so terribly privileged to drive it, and terribly guilty for my ingratitude. i missed the simplicity of the truck. you’ll have this car for the next ten years, and it’s so much safer than the truck, my parents encouraged. this is great timing. when the idea to help me buy a newer car had first been broached between my grandmother and my mom, i panicked. i wasn’t going to accept a car without putting some of my own money into it, and i began to tear up at the idea of selling the truck. only if i don’t have to sell sanch, i said. the idea was unthinkable. i constantly regretted the purchase of this car, feeling like i’d let my grandmother’s money go to waste, wishing i’d saved my own money and put it all into the truck right then and there.

two years passed and the subaru died on me countless times, refusing to start on days i had work, or afternoons going to meet evan at brewlab. usually running late, i’d hop in sanch and feel the familiar rattle of the cab as he roared to life, thanking him for being so reliable. i spoke to the truck all the time, patting the dash after he huffed and puffed up the winding grades on i5 on my way up to oregon, a casual good morning, an weepy rant after another misunderstanding with my now ex-boyfriend. a part of me believed that this is why he never let me down, like my words meant something, like the car knew how much i respected and adored it. i never once spoke to the subaru. no object had ever felt so inanimate to me as that poor car.

the repair stayed in the back of my mind. i let myself slip into some kind of identity crisis, convinced that the reason i’d lost my footing was not due to a global pandemic, nor the incompatible relationship i’d found myself fighting to get out of: it was because i’d stopped driving the truck. i took the subaru back up to college for my senior year, thankful to have a comfortable car to road trip in, a safe vehicle for oregon’s never-ending season of rain, yet feeling extremely out of alignment. the truck sat idly at home, the battery dying sometime between that december and june.

i settled down again in santa barbara, i began teaching, and i resolved to drive sanch only on the weekends, again trying to preserve the transmission. at this point, i had decided i would eventually take the repair further, to get the clutch kit replaced while the transmission was off. the truck was 22 years old at this point with the original clutch; it seemed like the prudent thing to do.

three years passed and my guilt over the entire situation deepened. my disgust at the privilege of having two cars resulted in deep contempt for the subaru, and in turn for myself. i’d become so accustomed to these feelings that i’d allowed them to settle deeply in my body, rarely confronting them, but feeling embarrassed every time i drove the subaru. i couldn’t see a way out. in the meantime, i found myself in a new relationship. i was rapt at the potential of a shared life with this man. i couldn’t believe our history, our compatibility, this opportunity to explore a new definition of love.

we’d been together for less than a year when we began to discuss the potential of moving somewhere new, forecasting a confidence in our relationship and love for one another that would eventually land us in utah. we’d talked about priorities and potential locations–affordability was key, i wanted to live in a part of the country i hadn’t yet, he hoped to patrol for another winter, i wanted to experience a real winter again after seven years on the west. not a forever move, but a see-how-we-like-it-and-go-from-there move. our loose plan was finalized in january of this year.

in february, i broke my wrist and incurred thousands of dollars in medical bills that depleted the cushion i’d been building up in preparation for the move, at least five thousand of which i knew i’d need to repair the truck. the hospital bills drove me crazy, not least because the surgery was fucked up and i’d sustained severe nerve damage as a result. my teaching salary paid me until the last month of august, providing a lifeboat with which i could comfortably make the move come november. i began to see a way out: selling the subaru back to the dealership, fixing sanch, and bringing him with me to park city.

despite being home for the month of september, i still put off the repairs, continuing to let the task snowball into something i was afraid to confront. come october, the pressure around the move was building, and still i waited. i finally called rick. i was met with a minute-long voicemail–he had retired, and thanked his clients for their years of loyalty and wished them luck moving forward. what a fool i had been to wait so long! i missed my chance to thank him back.

i got a referral for kiwi’s auto shop. i rehearsed in my head before getting there, afraid of being taken advantage of by mechanics who assumed i didn’t know what i was talking about. the truth was i didn’t really know what i was talking about–i could explain what needed to happen but not explain exactly why, or how. i spent hours on the tacomaworld forum reading posts from drivers who’d shared this same issue. hi, i said, i have kind of a specific problem, i know what needs to happen, and i’m hoping you’re able to do it. the shop had great reviews on yelp. i need the input shaft replaced, and since the transmission needs to come out, i’m hoping to get a new clutch kit. the mechanic, pj, looked at me blankly. we’ll need to run our own tests on it to determine that that’s actually the issue, he said. drop it off and we’ll call you when we know what needs to be done. for now, i can quote you for the new clutch and generic transmission work. he sent me away with a projected bill of $4400.00. i went into my brokerage account and sold a third of my holdings in an ETF.

the following week, i brought a box of donuts by kiwi’s, hoping to get a look at what they’d done so far. sanch was parked in the corner of their tiny parking lot, his taillights off for a wiring issue, the transmission in pieces on the counter in the back of the shop. i’m having a lot of trouble getting it apart, bob said. i’ve never had this problem. yours is unique–it’s one of four that they used for first generation tacomas, and it’s the only one no longer in production. if there’s any further issues, you might need a rebuilt transmission. yours has fifty-two teeth, and everything on the market has fifty-three. he was able to tell me that the pilot bearing was so worn down that it was nearly obsolete. the repair timeline was already running behind what i’d hoped for to move by november first.

they’d also told me that my bell housing was cracked, which they weren’t sure they’d be able to replace. i knew about this, though–i’d read it on tacomaworld–the standard bell housings on first gen trucks were cased in cheap aluminum that showed superficial cracks after years of wear. nervously, i asked, and you’re sure it’s not just the casting? later, i kicked myself for saying casting instead of casing, an indicator of my amateur knowledge. a week later he called me back to report that, in fact, he’d had a buddy look at it and determined that the cracks were all superficial, that it was the aluminum outer layer that was cracking. a silent victory for my rudimentary understanding of the innards of this truck.

the more they called me and reported comprehensive information, the more they outsourced to shops in new jersey and montana to inquire about the problems they encountered, the more i began to trust the guys at kiwi’s. after a week of radio silence, i got the call–one of the fifty-two teeth was chipped. the jig was up–they had to find a shop to build me a new transmission. it might feel a little different, bob told me, but it’s really a best case scenario. with the new clutch, your odometer’s basically going down to zero. it’s more expensive, but it’s a better fix. november first came and went. on november third, i called, hopeful for an update. they said they’d ship it out today or tomorrow, he said. it’s just a waiting game now. i know we gotta get you on the road, it’s taken longer than any of us expected. we’ve never seen this–it’s been so hard to track down the parts needed.

the following thursday, bob called again: it came in this morning! i’ve stopped all other work; i’ve got all my guys working on your truck. it should be done this afternoon, if you want to come pick it up. it was november seventh. i called the subaru dealership and made an appointment to sell the car on the eighth, and planned to pick up the truck on the same day, thrilled at the prospect of being a single-car-owner, elated to get the truck back in near new condition.

fifteen minutes after retrieving him, i was tracking down my dad, needing his signature on the title so i could legally transfer ownership. he was somewhere on haley street but not picking up my calls, so i frantically looked for a place to park, waiting to turn right behind a 2023 tacoma with his blinker on. i saw the reverse lights go on and before i could back up, this car had rammed into my front bumper. what i’d thought was a right turn signal had actually been an attempt to back-in park, and without looking behind him he floored it into me instead of his coveted parking spot.

i lost it. we pulled over, me in disbelief at my luck, and he spoke to me condescendingly. doesn’t even seem like there’s any damage, he said, as we stared at my bumper that was shoved inwards and upwards by half an inch. i don’t know what you’re so freaked out about. i called him on his attitude. dude, you just backed straight into me, i said, trying to be brave. you don’t need to be so cavalier about it. that was when he flipped the switch. he said i rear ended him, that he’d just been trying to park and i came up out of nowhere and slammed into him. i know i hadn’t. my foot had been strong on the brake, which was why the truck took such a hard hit. i hadn’t moved backwards on impact at all.

shaken up and appalled at the suggestion it’d been my fault, i assumed all culpability, didn’t take any pictures, didn’t get his plate number. he was an asshole to the highest degree. i’d just put over five thousand dollars into this truck–my pride and joy–to have it be called “an old rig that looks like it’s meant to take damage like this.” after a lot of tears and self-deprecation and gracious support from friends, i’d been talked off the ledge. i knew it wasn’t my fault, and even if it was, there was nothing i could do about it. i was devastated that i’d let sanch take that hit. i was supposed to make the move to park city in two days. i was overwhelmed and exhausted and excited and nervous and happy and sad all at once.

driving the truck home that day, my confidence in my driving skills at a new low, the third gear kept grinding. it wasn’t in the same place as before. the guys at kiwi’s told me it’d be different, but i hadn’t expected it to be this different. there was resistance to the clutch, a new particularity to the gears. i couldn’t toss it into gear anymore–everything had to be slowed down. i winced every time i’d shifted too early, forcing the cab to lurch into a new gear, listening to sanch groan as he tried to catch up with my footing.

the only language i could find to describe it was medical. it’s like he had an intensive surgery, i tried to tell my mom. he isn’t the same at all. it’s like when you go into surgery and you wake up and all of a sudden that part of your body is different, and you have to relearn how to use it. it isn’t the same. it’s unfamiliar, and it’s intimidating not to recognize something you’ve been so familiar with for so long. i wanted her to drive him, just for the reassurance that he was normal, safe. the ranges felt different, with third extending higher than it had previously but second reaching lower. even if it was a fraction of a mile off, the difference felt drastic to me.

i left california two days after this incident, on november tenth. i had packed in a stupor, leaving my warm-weather clothes on my shelves and drawers, parting with dozens of tchotchkes and mementos and relics of past selves, trying to move with a small footprint. john henry came with me on the drive out, my comforting passenger princess–he couldn’t drive stick, so we stayed in our respective seats for the entire drive. i questioned my decision to sell the subaru, so easy and so comfortable to drive in spite of its battery defect; i questioned the choice to save this car that i felt like i’d forgotten how to drive.

highway miles are crucial for sanch. he never drives better, my relationship to him never as symbiotic than on a long straightaway toward some far off destination. as we drove, i began to understand him more. i was forced to slow down and shift slowly and with intention. we’d made it through salt lake with ease, we started up i80, toward the place we’re calling home for the next six months. the truck crawled up the pass, forcing me to shift into fourth and then down to third to keep rpms up, big rigs passing us at 60 miles an hour. that’s the truck i know and love.

john henry sat patiently in the passenger seat. how fast are we going? he asked. barely forty, i said. sanch never does well on a grade, but i’ve never had to put it in third. that familiar gratitude arose. i patted the dash as we crested parley’s canyon. atta kid.

everything is new these days, and my writing has been inconsistent. we’re barreling into the anniversary of monday pieces and following that, a whole new year. i’m trying to take everything in, trying to temper the trepidation that comes with relocating my life. trying to find my confidence again, trying to ground myself in this new place, relying on sanch to remind me of the parts of me that are unchanging. i will always be the girl that loves this truck deeper than i can comprehend.

thank you for reading this lengthy and meandering ode to sanch. i’ve drafted so many pieces in the past month that sit unposted, collecting dust. there’s no better subject to put me back into the habit of writing.

all my love until next time,

r