THE OLD GUY AND HIS SAAB.

It was old, the Saab, coming up to sixteen now. That’s over seventy in human years. It’s why he felt so close to her: a black convertible with a tan interior and no rust. She was a little the worse for wear these days not unlike his very own self. It’s why he loved her so much. They had such so much in common.

He’d done right by her this winter and acted like a grown-up. He put her in the garage, something he’d never done before. It was the right thing to do. The winters were harsh and the car was a ragtop and starting to fall apart, just like him. So he put her indoors like anyone else with half a grain of sense would, and went through the winter safe in the knowledge that the Saab was snug as a bug in the basement garage.

Then came the spring.

He backed her out of her winter quarters on a sunny April morning. The leaves weren’t out yet but they were well on their way. And here’s the rub. After finally joining the grown-up club, he thought he’d reap the benefits of membership right away and his Saab would come out of hibernation just like it went in. Red lights wouldn’t flash warnings. And everything on the car would work the way it was supposed to.

Oh foolish man.

The Saab emerged from its dormancy in worse shape than when he put her inside. She started up hesitantly and that should’ve been a tip off right there. The engine appeared strong but everything else on her was suspect. The dashboard lit up like a Christmas tree announcing all the things that weren’t working any more. The fan groaned like a dentist’s drill. The exhaust burbled like they were taking off. The anti-lock thing didn’t work, nor the anti-skid system, or the anti-swerve feature, and the wipers needed water. The screen said to seek out the nearest Saab dealer as soon as possible. The trouble with that was there weren’t any more dealers. They’d all gone out of business years ago.

It turned out she needed a battery, an alternator, an oil change, a weld on the muffler, and the removal of a mouse-nest in the fan. The advice from the mechanic was not to mess around with the computer system that controlled the non-skid thing, the anti-lock mechanism and the anti-swerve feature.

“The car’s obsolete,” he told him, “it’ll cost a fortune to fix those things. As long as the brakes work my advice is to leave well enough alone.” Then he said in tones he reserved only for the dead or dying, “I’m afraid the car’s only value is its parts!”

Just like him, he supposed. Heart. Liver. Whatever. Even so he thought the car still had some life in it. So did he if you squinted real hard. Maybe. When he put his foot down she still took off like a rocket ship. Like he did, he supposed, though it had been a while since he’d had any reason to. They had that much in common too.

The old guy and his Saab.