Honda Ho

“That’s a hilarious nickname for yourself. You don’t mind calling yourself that?”

“Why would I? It’s only bad if you think too hard. Plus, like you said, it’s hilarious.”

You see, Antonia was a Honda Ho by choice. She knew absolutely nothing about cars in her genesis as a driver—she was just a girl who got her license because the instructor said she reminded her of little sister. She completely botched the parallel parking job in the quiet, quaint Queens suburb of Laurelton, and thought she would fall victim to the common first time fail of New Yorkers. But the instructor, straight-faced but warm, let her correct it, and handed her a flimsy golden ticket to the road as she slowly climbed out of her mom’s faded Elantra.

Her history with Hondas loomed in her mind while sitting in a strange Accord, waiting for her nerves to calm down so she could call 911. The tears came with no warning. As she sat on the passenger side, she could barely keep the phone straight through the shaking. Screaming was an option, but she didn’t want to scare Danielle. She was a frequent passenger in her Accord, and Antonia’s best friend. Her head titled back on the headrest, and her eyes stared without blinking, hoping to find a miracle on the stained upholstery. This was nothing compared to her clean one, she thought, then she remembered there were safety pins holding it together in the rear. Without moving her head, her peripheral caught something in the backseat. She turned to see a dirty Herschel Supply bag with a clean white zipper.

“Let’s see what these thieves carry around.” Antonia snatched the bag so viciously she didn’t even feel the weight.

“Uh, should we do that? It’s not ours. We have no idea who these people are.” Danielle said, almost reaching out to stop Antonia, but she recognized Antonia was not in the mood to be touched.

“Nah, those fuckers took something that wasn’t theirs, so why can’t we?” Antonia barked. She wasn’t a thief, but they had taken the one thing that was hers, prized but priceless, and every single injustice of her life came to mind. She wanted a form of revenge that couldn’t be found in altruism.

The bag was so full that Antonia could barely unzip it. She struggled, but in a burst of strength, her hand skidded across the zipper, and a deep green glare appeared in the reflection off the windshield; it was so vast the girls wouldn’t be able to see through it, even if they wanted to. They sat in silence for almost ten seconds; a lifetime of poverty kept them quiet.

“Oh my god. We gotta go NOW. Like right now.” Antonia finally said as she struggled to zip the bag. “Call an Uber! We’re getting the hell out of here.”

“What?! Where are we going? What are we going to do with all this money?” Danielle shrieked. Her phone bounced around her hand as she tried to pinpoint her location for pickup.

A 2020 Honda Accord pulled up. Poetic, Antonia thought angrily. In that noiseless Uber ride, Antonia let her thoughts carry her home. They brought her back to a time where she was just a young black girl who craved drive.

“They make great cars” she told her friends, without having any real knowledge of what a great car entailed. It was something her father told her, during one of his fruitless attempts to parent over the phone. But as she peered at craigslist ads into the dark hours of the morning, she took a liking to the Hondas. They were cheap, small, and quite pretty. Whenever she found a good one, she took out her little black notebook that she got from her university and scribbled down the main details. “Civic. 2004. 96k.” The men in her life confirmed that Hondas were cars that lasted long and didn’t need too much maintenance; and when they did, it wasn’t too expensive.

“I never actually bothered asking if any of these guys actually knew what they were talking about. I just figured they knew because they were men. That’s wrong, right?” Antonia asked her mother, Francis, from the passenger side as she turned her Elantra onto 115th Avenue towards their house in Cambria Heights. Francis shrugged as she flicked down her indicator.

“I don’t think so. Why would they answer if they didn’t know? Men usually know more about cars than women so it’s always best to look for counsel with them.” she responded flatly. Antonia cringed at her mother’s biased response. Francis wasn’t thrilled at the idea of Antonia on the road on her own, and she let everyone know. “The road is dangerous. You are TOO young.” But a car gave Antonia freedom, and in the quiet outskirts of Queens, independence was a lingering nimbus, just farther than arm’s length, casting a shadow into her room during her loneliest moments. Antonia chose to ignore her and focused on quenching her thirst to be out on her own. And when she finally found her first Honda, that’s exactly what she did.

A small, damn near inconspicuous Honda Civic. 2001. Gray. Or Silver, if you will. 115,000 miles. She pushed it to college, countless Chipotles, drive-throughs, legal and illegal parking, from the middle of Flatbush to the outskirts of Huntington and shared the sunken seats with a few boyfriends and a few jump-offs. She threw laundry, food, boxes, and even new tires for the car in that backseat. She didn’t wash it often, but when she did, the shine glistened like diamonds in the sun. Every drop of sun-kissed water made her heart dance, to a faraway place, where she could afford to go to the dealership, with both parents by her side, and pick out a car that has never been driven. Where money was no object, and anxiety was no barrier, and she didn’t need a used train station car from Jersey to escape the blithering silence of Queens suburbia. But as the drops faded, reality would slowly put her hand on her shoulder. Still, she thought it was the most beautiful car in the world. As the odometer ticked, it started to rust on the sides; it had cracks, scratches, a dent. Anytime it made an unfamiliar, alarming noise, Antonia twisted her wrist on the volume knob to drown it out with Kanye West. But when the key and the ignition met, the heavens cleared, and the engine would turn over.

Until one day, it didn’t. It conked out at Utica and Snyder, an unsurprisingly busy intersection in the middle of Brooklyn, especially that Saturday at 5 P.M. But within a few months, there was a slightly newer, slightly better Honda at her fingertips. 2005 Accord. Silver again, minimal scratches, and an unspoken luxury: a car remote. High mileage at 171,000, but still chugging and trudging through the potholes and tight corners of Brooklyn, Queens, and Long Island. The men and her mother didn’t really approve, but Antonia reminded herself everyday it wasn’t their foot on the gas pedal; it was hers.

The jingling of the zipper startled her back to the present. Carless, in the back of an Uber. Freshly calmed from the frantic, uncontrollable hysterics of having something you hold dear snatched away from you.

“Holy shit, I hope we know which one is yours when we get back,” Danielle said. Antonia drove them to Bed-Stuy to have lunch. She found a perfect parking spot behind another Honda, that was the same model, make, and color as hers. This wasn’t uncommon in NYC; many people drove old cars, and Honda Accords were popular. It wasn’t until they were just steps from her Accord that Antonia felt something very wrong.

“Hold up” She said. She grabbed Danielle’s arm lightly, but hard enough to cause alarm.

“Is that my car?” Antonia foolishly doubted herself, in desperate hopes that she was wrong.

“Dude, where’s my car?! HA!” Danielle’s poor Ashton Kutcher imitation didn’t reach Antonia’s ears. Antonia’s ears were closed, and she was numb.

“THEY STOLE MY CAR!! WHAT THE FUCK? HOW..? WHY?!” Antonia scrambled to the middle of the empty spot in a perplexed panic. She looked down, wishing her hopeless hooptie would appear from the black asphalt. She faced the other Accord’s hood, squeezed the unlock button on her remote, but the car lights wouldn’t flash. Danielle stood as still as stone.

“Are you sure? Maybe the remote is broken or something?”

“NO! THIS ISN’T MINE AT ALL!” The two girls stood there, paralyzed with shock, feeling the reality crush their spines. Danielle finally moved and slowly took the key from Antonia and stuck it into the driver’s side lock. It opened, groaning its age with every decibel, without any alarm.

“Let’s sit in here and call the cops. It’s probably just a mistake.” Danielle reasoned quietly. But Antonia knew the worst was true. She felt the moisture on her face, and the deep despair that comes when you do right, but the world still finds a way to make you pay.

After a short but organized counting session at Antonia’s house, the girls had their grand total: $20,000. As Danielle pranced with excitement, Antonia couldn’t help but sink into a wallow of despondence over the Accord. The loss amidst this incredible gain. This money didn’t bring excitement. It was a slimy, heavy reminder of what was taken in a matter of moments. She lived her life to the force of her engine, the crisp air of her AC, the click of her wheel. As long as she had her keys and one free hand, her life was hers. But Danielle’s thrill was infectious; Antonia joined her quickly, letting the rumbling of her Accord provide the rhythm to her jig. She threw her sadness into the backseat of her mind. She knew that Hondas were her destiny; with this money and fate persevering, she knew she’d find herself reunited with the road noise and those cozy seats once again.

So when she heard a familiar rumble coming from a distance, she didn’t raise the volume in their rental car, no matter how loudly Danielle sang with the radio. She kept mentioning this one place in Hilton Head, South Carolina, and Antonia promised they’d stop there, now that they had money to do anything. The rumbling got closer, and Antonia closed her eyes, waiting for the slight squeak in the brakes that you could only hear if you knew it was coming. She opened them just in time, to see an old Honda, probably the same year as hers, come and go, running a stop sign to let the booming engine bounce off the quiet lawns of southeast Queens. Antonia let the smile grow on her face until no more could fit. She knew it was only a matter of time before she took her newest throne, with the miniature silver “H” front and center, and reclaimed her life on the road.