Familiar Faces and Station Wagons

Those close to me know what a headache my Jetta is. Beloved Graham Bingum has a 1.8 liter Turbo engine and is essentially a lemon, although not so much that a lawsuit would be immediately won. You dig? His Lemonositude is a grey (Grae) area.

This morning I got into my car and turned the key. Instead of hearing the engine roar to life, I heard a click-click-click and the dashboard lights were flickering. I tried in vain to jump the car. Nothing. In fact, my sister's Nissan 350Z just chuckled and said, "Damn, baby. Your car is FUCKED." And then it thumped the Jetta's tires and drove away.

I called the roadside assistance people and got them to send a tow-truck. They were, as always, super helpful and apologizing left and right for my car not starting. I just kept smiling and accepting their pity while trying to calculate how much money they have made off my car needing towing pretty regularly for the last three years. After using all my fingers and toes, my figure was about seventeen million dollars, courtesy of VW. Good. Fuck em. Send them my bill this time, too.

Anyway, on this lovely Wednesday, I had a lot of work to do. I had to meet an editing deadline, clean my room, and pack. I also needed some food and a bath. And, perhaps most importantly, a lone Netflix sat in its red paper package, eagerly awaiting return to the Nearest Shipping Facility. This whole dead car thing really didn't fit into my schedule. Yesterday? Would have been fine. Monday? Not an issue. Today, of course, was the one day I needed some peace and efficiency.

I went upstairs and tried to accomplish something before the tow truck came. I received a call that said there was a huge accident that was delaying my pick up, so I had some more time. When the truck finally got there, I was standing on the sidewalk in front of my house, yelling into my cell phone that I HATED that fucking car and I wanted it DEAD (my mother was very shocked and suggested that I turn Satan out of my life. She suggested prayer.).

The driver pulled over and got out of the truck. I stopped hopping around and all of a sudden realized how bad my car situation had become. I KNEW THE TOW TRUCK DRIVER BECAUSE HE HAS TOWED ME BEFORE.

"Frank!" I said jovially.

"Grae! How the hell are ya?!"

"Could be better, my man. How's your daughter?"

And it kind of went on like that for a few minutes. Eventually, he told me that it was way more comfy in the A/C of the car and that I could fill out the paperwork in there. "You know the drill," he said with a wink.

As we started off for the very far away Santa Monica dealership, we filled each other in on what's happened in our lives since last we met. Frank had met a nice new lady, one that likes picnics and Pink's hot dogs. We discussed my love life ("Baby girl, if he ain't ready, go get someone who is") as well as my recent unemployment ("Their loss"). Frank thought that freelance was the way to go, so I could pursue bigger things. He said that he felt I was destined for something more. Something...greater. He also suggested I take a special man friend to a particularly lovely bar in Santa Monica, and no, I didn't have to worry about him expecting sex so early in the relationship. Frank says that guys aren't always like that. Then he mentioned something rather existential about having stripper poles in the middle of your living room that I didn't quite catch. But I'm sure it was gold.

We discussed Frank's first marriage, and why it went south. The conversation was peppered with truisms like, "I will NOT have her sisters comin' up into my house and pretending like I don't exist. Oh NO. Uh uh," and "So I shoved the cop and then my brother was like 'BLAU!' and he had me hogtied for at least 45 minutes."

He also suggested that I get a motorcycle or purchase a new Toyota or Honda. He mentioned that Jetta electrical systems malfunction in extreme heat, and that they don't do so well in the rain, either. Essentially, my car is known for never working in ANY weather. Oh, and if I DO get a motorcycle, I shouldn't white-line it and drive between cars. And if I do, revv the engine so people hear me coming.

We arrived at the dealership, and I was a little sad. I said goodbye and told Frank that we should really meet up when there aren't broke-ass cars involved, and he laughed and said it was a deal. I strolled in to the Volkswagen dealership, hoping that my short skirt would get me bumped up in the queue.

It did.

I voiced my thirteen concerns, signed the papers, and got my rental. When Marisa showed me to the car, I couldn't believe my luck. A 2005 Passat Station Wagon! Black, with silver accents. Tan cloth interior. Gleaming in the sunlight. I asked her if she had any kids I could rent to put in the back, and she just looked at me. I laughed nervously and kicked the tires.

"Looks like we're ready to go, then. I'll just have to talk to myself. Heh heh heh." she kind of half scowled at me, gave me the keys, and told me to have a nice day in a tone that suggested she meant something else.

I spent the rest of the trip home talking to my imaginary children in the back. Tim Tim has a nasty rash on the back of his leg that I think is the beginnings of leprosy, and Gina was busy discussing the fact that her soccer coach/english teacher didn't allow her friend Tammy to use the bathroom while they were reading aloud from Great Expectations. Tammy then threw a fit and ran out of the room screaming only to run into the hall monitor who happened to be a midget, and there was a tussle and the police were called. Gina said she liked the way midgets look when they're angry. Tim Tim was just busy scratching during the whole story, and I feared that he might be mildly retarded. But he's my imaginary child, and I'll love him no matter what. Harry Potter didn't die from living in the closet under the stairs, so neither will Tim Tim.

Anyway, I get the car back today.

cruisin'. g