This past weekend, I found myself in the low country – Savannah, Georgia, to be specific. My brother and I were driving into town, and we stopped at a gas station halfway between Dublin and Savannah to rest and refuel before the final leg of our journey. As our trusty rear-wheel drive sled drank up another 20 gallons of fuel, I noticed in the corner of the lot an old sedan for sale.

With a few moments to kill and an insatiable infatuation for all things automotive, I approached it. It turned out to be a 1967 Mercedes 250S for sale for a mere $900.

At this point, I must explain two things: first, when I was born, my parents drove me home from the hospital in a 1985 Mercedes 500SEL, so the manufacturer is very near and dear to my heart. Second, I am enamored with old cars, to the point that my own car actually pre-dates my birth.

This car had been around for 44 years – through Vietnam, the destruction of the Berlin Wall, even Sept. 11. Memories had been made in this car for more than twice my lifetime, and here it was for sale.

What was particularly interesting about this car, though, was the piece of paper taped to the passenger window. It listed the year, model, price and all the usual things one would expect to find, but then it continued.

“There are safer cars out there for sale,” it read. “Cars with thick slab like steel pillars cocooning you from the outside world. Cars with seven airbags. Cars with airbags for your knees. They have fancy GPSs that will tell you where you should go; they have systems that will brake for you, before you even notice that the car in front of you is slowing down.

“This Mercedes has none of these things.”

By this point my own car had filled up, but I couldn’t just walk away.

“And those other cars, their horns make cute little beeping noises, so considerate to not be rude. They don’t have horns that sound with the arrogance and fury of some long dead Mongol warlord. They don’t come with apocalyptic snow tires, all spikes and brutal tread. You cannot fix those cars on the side of the road, using a wrench as a hammer.

“Those cars will never force you to think, never allow you to exercise your own ingenuity. In those cars you can’t stand up illegally through the sunroof from the back seat, and watch the moon with the cool night air blowing through your hair.”

This had ceased being a car pitch; this was more than a spec sheet.

This past Monday The Crimson White ran an article about the suicide rate at the University of Alabama. It struck rather close to home because over the last year and a half, I’ve been personally affected by two students taking their own lives. As I was reading over this sheet of paper attached to a 44-year-old car parked at a gas station I couldn’t help but think about these students and what was going through their mind in their last moments. An odd association, I know, but these thoughts tend to creep up in the most unexpected places.

I continued to read: “Richard Nixon once said ‘Human existence is in the struggle.’ You could buy a car that will try and hide you from all the dangers of the world, but it won’t save you; all the alarms, all the airbags and the low sodium lattes in the world won’t save you. Some day you will die. But at least you can die with the wind in your hair.”

This last part reverberated with me. It made me wonder what these deceased students would say about their own existence. It made me wonder what exactly it was that they viewed as insurmountable. It made me wonder, yet I also did not want to know the answer. I did not want to know the answer because I knew I would not understand.

Human existence is in the unpredictability of life; not knowing what’s around the corner. Life can be tough and sometimes it can seem like there’s no way out, and maybe that’s how these students felt.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from maintaining an old car, it’s that there is always a solution. Maybe that was what this car, this old Mercedes in a gas station parking lot in the middle of nowhere, was trying to drive home: No matter what, there is always a way out. There is always a solution.

“Alternatively, it would make a good parts car.”

John Davis is a junior majoring in modern existence. His column runs on Thursdays.