Car troubles.
The old jalopy overheats downtown, the gauge is in the red, I wake from my semi-conscious commuter reverie to the sound of boiling water and the sugary smell of hot antifreeze.

I pull over, pop the hood, and do the thing where you stand there in the rain with your hood open looking very distressed, and people drive by and laugh.

I take an Aquafina bottle and collect rainwater from a drainage gutter, then add it to my parched radiator. I drive to Jiffy Lube and say "Dude, WTF."

Dude says, "Dude, you need a radiator flush because of magical coolant problems you've never heard of because I just made them up. It'll be $99.99."

I shrug and say, "Do it, dude. Do your thing. Make it happen."

I sit in the waiting room and read Motor Trend. It's sad reading articles about the newest Rolls Royce model while waiting for your dying decrepit Hyundai to come out of surgery. Everything in this Rolls Royce is made of superluxe materials. The engine block is oiled mahogany. The gas tank is Corinthian leather. The belts are the cured sinews of English lords.

Bullshitting Lube Dude finishes the job. I pay him and drive away. 5 miles from the shop my car is boiling again. I pull over in the parking lot of a Vet Clinic, appropriate since my car is wheezing and hissing like a cancerous cat. I do the open-hood staring-at-engine thing again, and I'm right next to the biggest intersection in the area. The city has a hearty chortle at my expense.

I have to wait for the car to cool down before I can add coolant, and I'm starving, so I leave the beast there and run across the street to Kidd Valley for some quick carbs. I come back with a bag of piping hot French fries, set them in the car, and go to work filling the radiator with antifreeze. When I'm done, I set the funnel on some trash in my car, and go back out to clean up. I call Jiffy to give Bullshitting Lube Dude a piece of my mind.

"Dude your engine advice sucks."

"Yeah, sucks all the way to the bank!"

"I'm gonna call your manager. I'm gonna have your job on a platter."

"Suck it, customer guy. I'm the Lube King. What are you the king of?"

I have no comeback for this, so I hang up and go sit in my car. I realize that the trash I dropped the slimy funnel into was actually my bag of fries. So this is how I find myself sitting in my car at night in the rain in a Veterinary parking lot, sifting carefully through a bag of French fries for the ones that aren't coated in anti-freeze.

Earlier today I read about how if you do radiator flushes yourself you need to make sure you don't get any coolant on the ground because dogs will lap it up and die. I guess I probably shouldn't eat these fries. But I'm starving.

Has anyone before me ever played high-stakes Russian Roulette with a bag of fries? Surely this situation is unique to history.

(P.S, I am disabling the email notification function. Things aren't working out between us. So you're just gonna have to bookmark this place. My deep-ass apologies.)


Post a Comment