THE FIRST KEY

While going through a box of things I hadn't seen in quite some time, I ran across a gray bag. It was a bag that once held a bottle of Grey Flannel cologne. Not very big, it had a draw string closure at one end. I could tell that there was something hard in the bag, and the way it sounded it was probably metallic. I cautiously opened it up, not wanting any of the contents to fall on the floor. After emptying the bag onto the desktop, I sat and stared at the keys that now littered my desk. There were all kinds of keys in all shapes and sizes and colors. I do not remember putting these keys in the Grey Flannel bag. They were found in a box of forgotten items ... things that were too neat to throw away, but so forgettable that I can't even remember the last time I looked in this box. Why do I still have these keys? They are totally useless to me now. The locks that they once manipulated are now far away from my life. I scattered them out on the table a little more so that I could see each one individually. When they were all in a pile, there appeared to be more of them than there really were. But once I had them separated, there were seven keys. I reached for one that had a star shaped impression on it. When I picked up the key, I found myself sitting in the driver's seat of a 1963 Plymouth Valiant. It was a four-door model, beige in color. It had push-button transmission, and an AM radio with one triangle speaker on the floor. There were rust spots in the paint job. Under the hood was straight-six engine. It was as uncool as it could be, but I was 16 and now I didn't have to ride the bus to school any more. I was ecstatic. The car had belonged to my grandmother, and now it belonged to me. I felt so independent, so free. I just wanted to drive anywhere ... everywhere. I volunteered to drive to the grocery for my mother. I drove to church and to school. I skipped school in that car a few times. Although it was terribly uncool, my friend didn't mind a ride to school at all. One day I got out some sandpaper and a can of Rustoleum, and I began to paint my car. I sanded a while, then spraypainted a while. Several days and several cans of paint later, it was even uncooler. Not only was it old, slow, ugly, it now sported a coat of brownish red paint. Of course it was just a base, I was going to paint it a real color later. Growing up in our little conservative church, I was convicted that it would be a sin to go to the prom. So on that night I took my date in my brownish red car to a fancy restaurant with valet parking. The valet got into my car and rolled down the window. He asked me how to make it go. He had never seen the push-button transmission before. Although I was a bit embarrassed, I laughed it off as his mistake. Not really a glorious night, as I'm sure my date would agree if she were to ever read this. I don't know what happened to that car. I never knew if my dad bought it, or if my grandmother gave it to us. I was able the next summer to save some money and bought another car. And sometime when I off at college my brownish red Valiant went to live with someone else. I doubt anyone ever forgets their first car. It is the first taste of independence, a sure sign of growing up. I can truthfully say that at times I have wished that I had kept that old car. Probably my memories are a bit polished over time, and maybe I've romanticized it a bit too much. Of course, I would have had it painted, professionally. I think I would have painted it black or white. To me, those are the colors old cars ought to wear. They are just more dignified. Setting the key back on the table, my sense of nostalgia now timelessly piqued, I smiled. For a moment I really could remember what it was like in the drivers seat of that car. The smell, the feel of the steering wheel, and the tinny sound of the music coming from the speaker. Then another key caught my eye....