My car trouble was the brake switch as I had determined. It took the dealer all day to figure it out. I told them what the problem was, they said to bring it in, and then they didn’t even have a brake switch in stock. If a man can explain taking apart his dash in detail, chances are he checked the fuses and the bulbs, and doesn’t need to know where the vanity mirror is. If he’s driving over an hour to get there, at least humor him enough to have the fucking part in stock before telling him to bring the car in. Don’t make him wait all day for a 15 minute fix. Oh, and if you ask if he wants the car washed and vacuumed, and he says, “Wow, great. Yes. That’d be great. Yea. Thanks,” that means “Yes.” Don’t offer and then blow it off. Hey, they picked me up and dropped me off at work, and the brake lights work. Can’t complain.

Although, I sat for 3 hours reading happily in perfect silence with seven or eight other people, until a well dressed woman in her late 20′s named Mrs. Gorgeous (no kidding) came into the waiting room. Her presence was as ill suited as her name. She was unattractive and pudgy, yet carried herself as if her stylish clothing were representative of her skin. She had big, gold hoop earrings, and a houndstooth coat. She entered from the doorway, and made a bee line for the TV.

She turned it on to a religious channel that was as loud and as unwelcome as she was. She then stood in front of it for a few minutes playing with the remote, as if trying to figure out which button Consuela pressed to get her TV working at home before giving up, grabbing a magazine and sitting down. Did I mention that the religious show is blaring? It is. Old guy steps in. He’s going to change the channel to the golf channel or somesuch, but can’t remember if this is the same type of remote that his son showed him how to use back in ’92. He stood there, inches from the TV, confused as hell, too. He gave up and shut the TV off. He left the room.

Back to reading. Everything going fine until the nice man from the office decides to help out, and puts the TV on NECN, so we can all enjoy some local cable news. No one looks. Then slowly, as if injected with barbiturates, certain people stopped mid page or mid stride to stare. Brains were shut down, mission was accomplished. It was at the right volume for ignoring.

Until Pudgy got up, blasted the volume, and sat back down to review the scintillating “sex secrets that every man wanted her to know.”

In this period, I covered nearly 150 pages. Proof that I need no outside entertainment, can ignore nearly anything, and may be autistic.

Posted in Cars