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My day started with a conference call that was interrupted by security personnel evacuating our area, because they had found a suspicious package. I figured it must’ve been a mistake, because security didn’t seem freaked out and sent us all off toward sealed exits, from which we would have to back track to find a way out. My thoughts were less on being safe than about the reasons why security is a low paying job.

We’ve been through a thousand fire drills, so I don’t think any of us took the situation very seriously until the bomb squad yelled “Fire in the hole” and blew up the package in the parking lot. Hearing a loud explosion at the workplace really wipes the sarcastic smirk off of your face pretty quickly.

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As if a bomb threat doesn’t make the day feel strange enough, while I was driving home, something strange passed in front of my rental car. As I sat there listening to some jazz, waiting to get through a neighborhood intersection, a 70’s model orange car passed in front of me. Nothing unusual there…except for the fucking FLAMES POURING OUT FROM THE HOOD AND UNDERCARRIAGE. If you’ve ever seen a car on fire on the side of the road, it’s kind of weird. If you see the fucking thing bombing through an intersection in front of you leaving you with only a trail of smoke and the nagging feeling that there is no way you just saw what you just saw, you know how I feel.

When I had pulled through the intersection, I confirmed that I was not insane, because the driver actually pulled into a parking lot and managed to open the hood. He was standing there talking on his cell phone as if driving a comet through the streets of Quincy was a normal part of his daily routine.

“Yea. It’s me. Mmm hmm. Guess who owes me ten bucks. That’s right, fuckhead, you do. Yes way. The test comet made it 2.7 miles before it started burning, and 4 before my sneakers melted to the pedals. Fuck yea, I pulled over! These sneakers are practically new. What? No, no it’s still burning, all right. Can’t you hear it? Hey, can you come down and pick me up? Oh, you are a di-ick. Fine. Ok, FINE. Yes, I swear you can keep the ten bucks. Just get down here before Ma figures out who has her car.”

Posted in Cars, Work