The Tales of a Future Hockey Wife

Chapter 13: Mister Owner

~Eleanor~

Our car is as old as me. When he moved here, Ben went to the car dealership by himself to try and surprise me with a brand-new car. Only thing is that he couldn't afford a brand-new car, so the dealer sent him home. "You better shop online, boy," are the words he told him. One single look at Ben's budget made him decline a sale. So, that's what we did. Since he couldn't buy anything new, he waited for me to choose our "brand-new" car. After days of internet surfing, we came across a navy-blue 1998 Toyota Echo. It was a little over our budget, but we ended up taking the train to Chatham-Kent to see it. With all its flaws, it was perfect for us. It was clean enough, it went well enough for Ben to drive it to the arena every day. It was even equipped with AC and a cassette player! I was too excited about the AC that I didn't notice the huge stain on the backseat. The previous owner swears its only water, but since when does water stain? "What is that big stain on your shirt, Ella?" "Oh, it's just water." Yeah, it doesn't make sense to me either, but we went with it. We needed a car that badly. Anyway, the only time someone sat in the backseat was when I went shopping with Viv and Blair last year while Ben was away for a tournament in Ottawa. Most of the time, the backseat is covered with sports bags, hockey sticks and, on rare occasions, school books. The main reason why we needed a car was because Ben often leaves around five-thirty am when there are no buses. Even if the arena isn't far, he wouldn't have been able to cover the distance on foot while carrying his heavy bag filled with his equipment.

In the three years we've lived in Windsor, this is our second "road-trip." The first one was when we decided to spend Thanksgiving weekend in Toronto last year. Our car made it all the way without a stop at the garage. We were worried since we had never drove this far with it before and because of its history. On its first week with us, Ben had to ask for one of his friends to boost it since the battery had died. Then, when Ben was away for a weekend for hockey, a little yellow light appeared. Check Engine was written in big bold yellow letters. I had no idea what it meant, but I knew it wasn't good, so I called my father like any girl would do in the moment. Of course, him being in Victoria wasn't the best scenario. He couldn't tell me to wait for him to meet me in a parking lot, so he told me to drive to the nearest garage. I think the last time I drove this slowly was when I first got my license. After giving the mechanic 200$ and spending the afternoon in his waiting-room, the he told me that there was nothing wrong with our car. Ever since that day, we drive around with a Check Engine yellow light taunting us. We never know when or if the car will break down.

Ben woke me up at seven this morning, so we could leave by eight. I found this absolutely useless since it was only a thirty-minute ride. We could have slept longer, but when he woke me up, Ben told me that he had woken up at six. I guess that's what happens when someone is used to waking up at five every day. I never thought I would hear someone say that, for them, waking up at six am is sleeping in. At least he woke me up with coffee or I would have either hit him as hard as I could this early in the morning or told him to go to hell with his road-trip. We got into our car, covered the "water" stain with our bags and hit the road listening to old Madonna and Prince cassettes. Half-an-hour later, we pulled up in front of the hotel where the valet looked disappointed when he saw our car. I think he is used to fancier and more expensive cars. I saw in the expression on his face that he wondered how we could afford to stay at this hotel. The receptionist wondered too I am sure. She handed us our keys with a weird smile. Ben was glowing, you could see in his face how excited he was. The first thing he did when we unlocked the door was to jump on the bed. Personally, I had to see the huge sinks they show in the pictures. They are even bigger in person. How can someone need such a big sink? Do rich people wash themselves in the sinks? If they do, then why is the shower as big as our apartment's bedroom? I have a feeling that I will struggle understanding how this shower works later today. There are so many jets with as many knobs that all seem to turn in different directions. I saw how much time I had spent in the bathroom when Ben walked in to see if I was okay.