Her name was Georgetta. And one week, she taught me about trust after she betrayed mine.

She also showed me how kind people could be.

Georgetta was a bright red Pontiac Grand Am. She wasn’t the best-looking thing around, but she was mine. She had this deep gray interior with enough headroom and leg space that I could fit my entire life into her. I’d eventually do that one day. Twice, actually.

I’ve had other cars, sure, but she was the first one that had my name on the title. When it came to Georgetta, she was everything and I did everything for her. I took out my loan, negotiated my price. Eventually, it came time to show her off.

My friend was getting married and I was the best man. At this point, I’m in Indiana, and he’s not too far off in Michigan. Another friend was coming along, driving from Kentucky to my place. From there, I’d take us to our destination.

The drive was a drive. Put the music on. Jam out. Talk about video games and movies and what sorts of things we’d been up to and if we’re still seeing that one girl or not and how that worked out and you know, stuff. It was your run-of-the-mill road trip until the home stretch.

But Georgetta, in just a little less than two months of being together and five hours on the road, suddenly started acting different. She wasn’t herself. And she showed me why she’d only ever had just one owner besides me.

We were approaching a red-light, about three cars deep on this four-lane highway. There were these big green trees lined uniformly on both sides of the road. It’s a good-looking place that’s well taken care of, this piece of Michigan that’s about an hour north of Detroit.

But Georgetta started jumping. She started sputtering.

-Hey hey hey, what’s wrong? What’s going on?

She kept coughing. Like she was choking or something. In an effort to calm her down, I placed my hand on the dash and started patting her.

-You OK? What’s wrong? Talk to me!

As we came to a complete stop, she was acting like she wasn’t ever gonna start back up. She was talking to me alright, but it wasn’t the quiet rumble she’d been making during the trip. She was hacking. Shaking violently up near her front.

-Come ON!

My gentle pats on the dash turned into solid thumps with a balled-up fist.

The light turned green, but she refused to go. I jammed my foot down onto the accelerator like I’d found a giant spider that I didn’t want to be alive anymore and just nothing. She’s redlined. She’s got nothing to give back to me.

I yelled at her. No, it wasn’t a yell. It wasn’t even a scream. It was a sustained shriek that my friend later told me terrified him. He didn’t say anything during this. Nothing to calm me. Or her. No suggestions. Just a bystander in this mess.

-We need to move, Georgetta!

My eyes widened, but I couldn’t see any of the gauges. I was checking whatever I could think to check while in the driver’s seat, melting into a puddle of fear. Alarms bells had already gone off, but panic was burrowing its way even deeper into my head like a dozen tiny worms had a rock lifted off them.

But finally, she started to nudge forward. Just barely. The light had been green for years and cars behind us had turned to dust waiting for Georgetta to figure out her next move.

She suddenly lunged forward in a jolt, but thankfully didn’t maintain that initial burst to ram us into the car some way ahead of us. She somehow managed to keep her composure, but she was letting it be known that she wasn’t the least bit happy about it.

With the accelerator still smashed all the way down, she’s getting maybe 20. And we’re still on the road. I have got to get off this highway. I’ve got to get my friend off this highway. I’ve got to get her off this highway. How did she do so well only to mess up so spectacularly at this point? We’re not even a mile and two turns from this big, gorgeous cathedral where my friend’s about to get married to this wonderful woman and –

She was screaming at me.

The sounds Georgetta made were not ones she should’ve been. They were sounds that denounced me. She spoke a language that I could understand.

She was mad. And I couldn’t blame her. I was too.

-GIVE ME SOMETHING.

I fueled her with my anger, like I was pouring my fury into her gas tank. I willed her to move. White knuckles, threats and all.

She kept going, barely, but I figured that I couldn’t afford to stop her. I didn’t know if she’d ever get going again. I didn’t know if she’d ever move again ever after this. And we were so close to where we were going that she’s just got to be able to make it. She’s got to have just a little bit left. She’s got to.

We got past the light and made a right turn, headed downhill on another well-kept stretch of road, again with the trees nicely lined along the sides and prepared for the penultimate turn. Georgetta handled the downhill part just fine, but we’re still barely moving and she’s still so mad about it.  

I’m ruining her, but I’ve got to turn one more turn to make. And it’s uphill.

We were almost there. We could see the church.

With my heel still firmly planted down, she groaned and shook her way into the church parking lot where she just stopped.

She picked a fine place to die.

My friend had still not said a word.

The driver’s door flung open and I ran to her front to see what was the matter. What was her problem, anyway? In my blindness, I forgot to open the hood first. I marched back, smashing each foot down that sent a pain up my leg. I nearly tore off the hatch that opens the hood.

But Georgetta spat a defiant pillow of smoke into my face, a giant I-told-you-so from where I’d tried to push her on from earlier.

It was late, not deep into the evening, but the sun was setting and reflected off the windows of the church. You couldn’t see through them on the outside, but within, everyone was viewing my confrontation.

I had sullied my grandmother’s name. Tarnished her legacy. This car wasn’t deserving of the name I gave her.

When the wedding entourage stepped outside, it hit me. Oh yeah, that’s right. I don’t just have a busted car. I’m not just trapped in Michigan now until I figure something out.

I still have this wedding.

The father didn’t know me. I didn’t know him. I wasn’t a patron of his church. Hadn’t been to one in a while. He made me rethink things. He said it was fine to leave my car there as long as I needed to. To not worry.

Sure. Not worry. I took my face and shoved it underneath a mask and clamped it tight.

It was time for rehearsal.

It was during that week that I learned firsthand the incredible kindness that can be found in strangers.

Not just in the help and advice I got when I finally wheeled into the church parking lot, and not just in the phone calls to and from my parents practically talking me off the ledge, leaned over this trash car, head buried.

She’d let me down. The one time I needed her the most. Our first outing together and she’s embarrassed me.

I contacted the dealer that I purchased her from, enraged at them, but kept my cool. I’ll give it to the dealer though, they were willing to come up that way and get her. I figured they owed me that – they had clearly sold me a bad car. It’d been just a few months.

I did that before contacting my parents, actually. It was a bad move.

Their driver apparently got halfway before I had a change of mind. That cost me a couple hundred bucks, but I trusted them that he had actually started the journey. I made that decision after deliberations both internal with myself and external with virtually anyone who would listen. And there were plenty who would.

I wasn’t alone. I was constantly reminded of that with nice words and sweet gestures. I had my friends by my side, yeah, but it was the people I was meeting for the first time who kept me stable. I wondered if they could tell that I had been dry heaving outside the church, next to this piece of junk car. I wondered it they could tell that I’d been wiping my eyes dry before I went back in for another go of rehearsal.

I told them I just needed to make a phone call. They got it.

My friend hadn’t even tied the knot yet. That was still a day or so away.  

But again, these people I’d never met before kept me close.

My friend’s father-in-law-to-be had heard of the issue. Of course he had, how could he not? Besides the upcoming wedding, my fabulous mistake of trusting that car had been the number one talking point.

That was my first time meeting this man. He’s older and slim with a round face and the classic white hair that men his age wear. It went well with his thin rimmed black glasses.

He had the kind of personality that you’d want to sleep on. He was comfortable to be around, to talk with, just to listen to.

And he offered me his truck.

-Are you sure? What the? Really? But you don’t even know me. Why would you do this? I’ve known you for like an hour at this point. Are you sure about this? Like, really sure?

He was.

He wouldn’t take no for an answer, actually. He didn’t drive it anymore and said he saw someone who was in need. It was an old, baby blue bronco with a cream white topper over the bed. He said it wasn’t much. He said it was bumpy. But he said it was mine if I wanted it.

And I didn’t want it, no. But I had to take it. I couldn’t turn him down. He wouldn’t let me. And it was the right move to make.

But the guilt.

I’m the odd man out. This is supposed to be my friend’s week. And here I am, claiming so much of the spotlight. All because of my car. I wanted to crawl into a hole like a mouse and seal myself away.

This man and his family are well off. Living in a nice place. Multiple cars and evidently no worry that some random guy would take off with one that he didn’t drive anymore. Me being my friend’s friend was all he needed to know that I was on the up-and-up when he handed me the keys.

I didn’t know what to say then. I don’t know what to say now. I still feel completely undeserving of that sort of goodwill.

I owed that man more than I could repay him. He didn’t deserve the tragedy that struck him just a few months after watching his daughter get married. No one does. But that man? He deserved the best.

When we went to the mall to get our suits, another thing happened.

Of course it did.

My suit didn’t fit. Not one bit. In this dark, hot fitting room, I kept trying and trying and trying to keep these pants from slouching in the back and wanting to slide right off me. No go. No matter what I did. I told the tailor, I told my friends, but there was apparently nothing that could be done on such a short schedule.  

I swore I had sent my size in with plenty of time to spare, I think, and either I messed up or something got lost in translation because I needed something more than a belt to keep myself clothed. I practically needed a bungie cord wrapped a dozen times around my waist.

I kept hoping I’d wake up from taking wedding entourage photos but no, it was really happening.

Each shutter snap reminded me that this was reality. The reality of driving a good man’s truck whose trust I didn’t deserve and hadn’t earned. Of being able to utilize the church as a waystation for my car for nothing in return. Of acting foolishly earlier with my phone calls and actions in and around her, during and after the drive.

And yet, despite all of that and having no idea what to do, everyone continued being so great. So accommodating. So cheerful.

There were so many smiles.

-Please, just let me be miserable.

-No.

We walked over a bridge towards a gazebo and I lagged behind the rest so as to not showcase my struggle so much. It’s hot. I’m practically bowlegged trying to figure out how to make it look like walking with one hand on your hip all the time is a cool move and not just me trying to keep my pants from falling down. Couldn’t be done. Everyone knew.

No one cared though.

It was time for another photo. Another memory of this to be flashed onto my retinas and to be remembered by everyone.

But that photo wound up being on so many Facebook pages. It was a good one.

I told my friend that if he made me cry at his wedding, I’d never forgive him. But when his wife-to-be walked in to Canon in D, I started to. I’d been dry the whole time until then. I looked over at him and he saw me and we both teared up.

I was so mad at him.

I was so happy for him. I told him as much in my smile.

My smile? How was I able to do that?

I’d never seen a catholic wedding before. Lots of kneeling on this cushiony bench. Was a wonderful ceremony in this big gorgeous cathedral. Everyone was well dressed. My pants wouldn’t stay up.

My emotions were firmly balanced against each other in a stark dichotomy  – panic and terror from the car situation and the pants versus overwhelming joy for my friend.

At least I was able to hand the ring off when I was asked for it. Standing up at the front of the church, everyone’s eyes able to look at me but choosing not to. Don’t let me be the center of attention anymore. Please, direct it at the middle of the church. Direct it at these two people. At my friend.

I’d never ridden in a limo before. We piled in and started dishing out champagne glasses and tried to figure out how to open a bottle of that stuff. It was a short ride to the reception. I didn’t dance though, I just hung around and slammed a bunch of stuff down my gullet trying to calm down.

No one minded. They’d drop by to hang out and chat about the evening and how beautiful the wedding was before moving onto the next person to talk with. Nothing about the suit, nothing about the car. Still, I kept to myself and tried to plot out my next move.

The mission had been accomplished. My friend had gotten married. The hard part was over, right? Now I needed to focus on how to get back home.

All the while, my car stayed unresponsive, baking in the hot summer sun of the church parking lot.

You need a credit card to rent a car. Did you know that? I didn’t. I was 20-something. I didn’t need one of those. Why would I need a credit card? You’ll ruin yourself with a credit card.

Turns out, after we left one car rental place who told us we were out of luck without one of those debtmakers, my friend, the one who I didn’t meant to scare with my breakdown but did, remembered, of course, that he had one.

Of course.

I couldn’t stay mad though. He did let me use it to rent a car. It was a nice, small black Mazda, the kind of car I could fall in love with. She felt good to drive. I felt bad to give her away. I was in Indiana with the Mazda while my car still sat there in the church parking lot in Michigan.

The wedding was a few days ago.

But I couldn’t just leave her there. She was mine, after all. I’d made a commitment to her. And we left on such a bad note. I’d said such awful things to her. Things I didn’t mean.

Every time we’d driven past the church, I stopped to see if she’d start up. She’d whir at me and yell, but she’d give me nothing.

Until one time, she did. She started right up like nothing was the matter. I took it as a miracle, considering the surroundings and everything that’d happened. She owed me this. My friend took the blue truck and followed me while I took her to an auto parts place to see if they could help.

Awful idea.

They aren’t mechanics at stores like those. They can do wipers and stuff, but she needed checked under the hood. When they ran that diagnostic thing, nothing came back. That’s garbage. There’s clearly something wrong with my car.

She wouldn’t start back up in that parking lot. I had her towed back to the church. What else could I do? That was my safe haven.

I drove behind her as she was strapped to a flatbed, being hauled off to a proper mechanic’s shop. After a week or so of living in the church parking lot, even taking up one space near the front on a Sunday morning from an actual parishioner, my car was on her way to get what she needed.

I had made so many mistakes. I had done so many stupid things. And people kept being so great to me.

Why?

Mom had made the six-hour drive to my place in Indiana. The very next day, we took another six-hour drive to take care of my car. I told mom to not pay attention to the speed limit once you hit Detroit and to just maintain the speed of traffic and try to keep up. It gets nuts up there.

She said she prayed the whole time.

It was in her ignition. She just couldn’t get going. The mechanic said it’d probably needed fixing for a while and that’s why her last owner got rid of her. Mom helped out with the cost and followed me back down to Indiana before driving back home. In the span of three days, she’d spent one of them driving.

But at least the drive back to Indiana was a nice one. There weren’t any bad sounds. She drove like she was new. I apologized during the trip. For how I had acted. For things I had said. All the things I’d done and thought.

I don’t live in Indiana anymore. My friend is still married to his wife. I made a donation to that church. And my car? She runs fine. Hasn’t had a problem. And I’ve taken her across the country twice since then. We’ve been all over together, just me and Georgetta.