Personal Narrative Essay: The Green Hornet

With 176,000 miles, broken window cranks, stained nylon seats, a massive dent on the right fender, and the pungent fragrance of a high school locker room, my friend Ken’s ’96 green Mazda Protege was the most decrepit, yet beautiful car I’ve ever ridden. It could have been Ken’s adventurous driving or maybe it was the car sounding like it would explode while idling, but I sometimes feared for my life in that car. Due to its bright hue, Ken nicknamed it “The Green Hornet.” I laughed when I first saw it; however I realize I grew a lot in that jalopy. The Green Hornet took the brunt of many jokes. When Ken drove into our school parking lot, my friends and I would try to outrun the car’s sluggish acceleration. We wanted to paint on numbers and stripes to give it NASCAR styling. Ken's questionable driving added to the "legend" of the Hornet. He exceeded speed limits, neglected to slow down around corners, and constantly fiddled with the radio. He had a theory that STOP signs with white borders were optional, and only mandatory if the border was black.
We put many miles on the Green Hornet, covering most of the state of Connecticut going to school sporting events.
Ken and I founded our school’s Sports Media Club and broadcasted all the games together. I was the tech guy while Ken provided the on air commentary. I had no intention of speaking on air, as years of speech therapy made me feel self-conscious. Midway through our school’s third football game junior year, Ken put me on the spot: “Patrick, what are your thoughts on our defense’s performance?” I was caught off guard, but I didn’t stall. I surprised myself by offering fluid, analytical balance to Ken’s
play-by-play. The more we traveled, the closer our friendship grew. We found that we both take our schoolwork seriously, we’re not image conscious, we feel the best joke is on yourself, and we prefer live, real, personal interaction over living online. Our friendship grew so much that Ken, to my amazement, trusted me with his most precious possession: he handed me the keys to the Hornet for emergencies. Friendship involves sacrifice and taking risks. Ken’s risk paid off. A month later, he lost his keys, and the back-up set saved him from being stranded. It cost me a brisk round trip jog home to fetch the keys, but it felt good to deliver in the clutch. Three days before his seventeenth birthday, Ken called in tears. The Green Hornet was dead. His cherished car was involved in a fender-bender and its value too low to repair. The insurance label “total loss” was the best way to describe Ken’s crushed spirit. As Ken slowly went through the five stages of grief, all I could do was listen, and offer consolation. I learned friendship involves compassion. It was probably during Ken’s “acceptance” phase of grieving when he admitted to rolling through a stop sign — gently rear ending the car in front of him. With the Green Hornet’s absence, and my recently acquired license, the task of driving to games was now on my plate. As I pulled into Ken’s driveway before the first football game this fall in my parents 2005 redrock pearl Honda Pilot, with a five star safety rating, and newly crowned as the “Ron Burgundy,” I could only think of how much I had grown in the past year. When we drove to a four way STOP near the school, Ken said, “No cop, no stop.” I responded, “The Ron Burgundy stays classy and stops at all stop signs.” I patted my pocket to make sure I had our broadcast notes, mentally going through what we would say in that night’s game. I checked both directions, and slowly accelerated through the intersection onto the highway into the night.