Every Picture Tells a Story

The Trans Am wasn't just a car. For a long time it was like one of our roommates.

People wonder about the guys who name their vehicles, but I don't think there's anything weird about it. A car isn't just a machine the way your television is. So much of your life is shared with it. Road trips and heart breaks and taking home your baby girl from the hospital for the first time. Your car is there for it all through thick and thin.

It wasn't my car. It belonged to a friend, but I'd spent so much time in it that it may as well have been part of my family.

It was hard for everyone when he had to sell it. We made the long drive in my van to Baton Rouge as his sister drove that beautiful Pontiac for the last time. We met the seller at a tire shop. He was tall and muscular with gel in his hair. As it turned out he and his wife were a pair of strippers. The hilarity of that fact didn't help though.

Whoever they were, we knew they wouldn't appreciate the Trans Am the way we had. To them it would just be a slick car. The act of sale stole it's personality.

We said goodbye, and made the long drive home.