Hi. My name is Baby. If I've done my rudimentary math right, I'm almost 50 years old; a bit of a cougar for my current love, but let's not discriminate here. I'm not much of a Dodge fan. Sorry, Chevy humor. What I mean by this is I've been around for a while and though I may seem old, deep in the crank shaft, where it counts, I know I'm a classic. And because I have class, I try to take real good care of those who take care of me. Let me give you a little back story, just so we're all on the same piece of asphalt.
I have a lighter-haired love who calls me Baby; after I was terribly hurt back in 2006, he rebuilt me from the chassis up. I owe him everything. When he calls me Baby in his gruff, deep voice, I know I'm the one for him. And it's the best name in the world, Baby, truly music to my speakers; like Metallica or Motorhead, but better. Anyone who calls you Baby… well, that guy? That's the guy for me. Through all the years of listening, I came to understand his name is Dean. In my carburetor, where it counts, I simply call him my one true partner.
Sometimes I'm known as "The Impala." There is a younger, tall, dark boy who calls me that; usually with fondness, but sometimes with jealousy. His name is Sam and I've learned to distinguish between the two. The Dean one likes hard rockin' classic music and rollin' down the highway at speeds that sometimes scare me. But he is always affectionate and I try to reciprocate by keeping my wheels firmly gripped to the road. The Sam one likes newer, softer rock and pop mixes and is usually filled with angst when he is alone with me. I wonder if it's me? Because the younger one went so far as to modify me with a foreign electronic device and added insult to injury by putting a dog in my back seat. Thank Durant, Little, and Campbell, my beloved Dean came back from wherever he was and fixed everything. He's left me twice now, not counting when he garaged me for fear of something called evil doppelgängers and the time he quit hunting when Sam was inexplicitly gone. I do not like it when Dean is gone; I miss him. And I think Sam does too, but sometimes it's hard to tell. I do not approve of foreign electronics. Buy American, I say. And I especially do not believe in dogs in the back seat. Don't tell Dean, but I believe in dogs in the front seat.
I've heard an older guy, a real expert, refer to me as "The Impala" as well, but I haven't felt him for a while. He bought me in 1973 after a guy named Sal put me up for adoption in a place called Lawrence. The older expert took good care of me for many years. I cannot tell you how grateful I am he didn't buy that piece of crap VW parked next to me in the Rainbow lot. What a snooty, stuck-up, little four-banger, cream-over-gold, German-engineered brat he was, but I digress. For some reason, I have the distinct impression of Dean's voice in 1973 talking to the older guy, but that can't be possible. Like I said, I may be a bit of a cougar, but I can do math. The older guy, the expert, he even let me help raise his boys into handsome, competent young men. Because of this and because of the boys, I mostly call the expert Dad. Dad loved me so much he even went so far as to give me to Dean when the eldest turned 18. No one ever called me Baby before Dean though. Dean is tall. Not as tall as the younger, dark-haired boy who he refers to as his brother, but still tall. His hands are calloused but his fingers are nimble. I'll never forget the time he put legos down my heater vents. It annoyed me for a long time, that rattle; now I'm just sentimental about it. It reminds me of how long my love has been with me. Even with his scarred and battered working-man hands, when he touches me, he is careful not to scratch my paint or ding my doors. He always shows a deep and abiding respect for me, keeping me tuned as comensurate with my classic, hot-rod status. I can ask for no greater thing than to have the boy who calls me Baby in the driver's seat with his hands on my steering wheel and his beautiful body pressing down on my cushions.
And so, that brings me to my point. I take care of Dean. Well, both boys for that matter, just like family should. I provide entertainment when it's that rare time to play. Sometimes I'm a storage unit and my favorite companion is my Coleman chest filled with ice and beer. I know how to recon an objective, tail a monster, and, even more important, how to get the hell out of Dodge when it's time to evacuate. I'm a weapons locker so my family can defend themselves and others. I am tireless in my devotions: saving people, hunting things. Because I love Dean, I love his Sam. And because of that, I play my supporting role as best I can in this thing Dean calls the family business. I let them sleep under my canopy. I do not run rough and always strive for the smooth center of the road. I am both transportation and safety, and I like to keep my motor runnin' in case of emergency. I am a port in a storm and shade for a tired brow. I carry the load when it's too heavy for my Dean to shoulder and give a fender to lean on whenever it's needed. In cases like this, I sometimes wonder if it is rain or tears that fall on my shiny black hood. Nevertheless, I always listen to their problems because the greatest gift I can give them is something ephemeral: my time. I am home for Dean and Sam. And every now and then, on rare occasions, I'm a jail. But don't tell any demons that, okay?
I'm not sure what "Impala" means to you, but I can tell you what it means to me: it means my boys aren't with me. What I want to hear is my boy crooning Baby to me. That may seem like a simple term of endearment, but it's also a contract, a family, and it means the purest of love. Baby? Oh, yes. That's my boy. Whisper it to me again, please.
And when he calls me that, I'll do anything to give Dean and his beloved brother something we all find too little in life: I am their haven.