Tweet My car died Saturday. Well, not really. It didn't die all the way, but it will soon. Kind of like that scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail:
"I'm not dead..."
"What? He says he's not dead."
"Well, he will be soon."
Like I told the guy at the garage, "The headlight is out, and it spastically jerks about if the needle gets near the number two in that little RPM dial thingy."
As if that's not enough, the steering went out in Big V's new-to-him truck. We were in the driveway getting ready to return a video.
"Wow, that squeak is really loud. What is that? Is that a belt?"
"I think it's the rotars."
"The brake rotars? But we're not moving. Do they make noise if we're not moving? Are you sure that it's not a belt?"
"No, I'm pretty sure it's the brakes."
So, V, who knows absolutely nothing about mechanical things, hops back out of the truck, lifts the hood, and stares at the inside because, really, what else are you going to do when you open the hood of a vehicle and know nothing about what is going on inside there? So he stares. And stares some more. And then the truck stopped. As in, the motor just shut off.
Well, ain't that somethin'?
V hops back in the truck, closes the door and sits.
"Maybe it's a safety thing - like if the brakes don't work right then the engine won't let you drive the truck." He gave me this look as if to say, 'you are not helping.'
So here sits a couple with three children between them and no working vehicles. Not good. V, being a man who takes care of things, gets a ride to the shop and brings home a work truck to use, and promptly backs it into the driveway and into my car.
Take your time. You can re-read that sentence again.