Well, the Ford Tempo of Doom is now officially..
somebody else’s problem.
Yup, I finally sold it and the only thing really wrong with it today, that I’m aware of, was an oil leak, which I told the buyer about. Because after all, didn’t the damn thing have like 3 gazillion new parts. I got $250 for it. And I had to give the go-between guy Roger a commission of $20 after a fierce dispute with my mom this morning. She said I had to. I told her I had no money until the third unless the guy paid me in small bills. She said I was cheap. I corrected her and said I was poor. It went on and on.
But the Big Story of July 1, 2006 was when I went downstairs to make the deal. I went bounding down the stairs, because holy crap, was I ever happy to be selling that piece of shit car. Roger and Al were sitting in their car. I waved to them. They got out. I had my little official receipt pad since I used to have a business and had to write receipts all the time. I looked at at them, but noticed they were strangely distracted by something behind me. What was it?
A FUCKING SHERIFF’S CRUISER!!!!!
Jezus-h-Kahrisst, I almost fainted. A sheriff’s cruiser driving though OUR parking lot? They just sort of did the pretend-the-cop-car-isn’t-there thingie, but since I’m kind of a novice, although, ha-ha, not really. I forgot, I’ve already been in trouble with the law once this week. I’m such a bad-ass! Ya want me to rob a bank for you? I mean I totally could since I’m such a gangsta now. Snoop Menopause Witty. Yo!
But I kind of blanked out as the big SUV cruiser drove around behind us. I was looking down at the car title, but it looked like it was in Chinese and I filled it out wrong. I put myself as the buyer. I then got in the car to record the mileage and I couldn’t focus. Was it 123,000 miles or 112,300? Roger in the meantime told Al he was going to drive around the block to make sure everything was okay. Gah! What the hell did that mean? Was he looking for a SWAT team? Or gangstas? Or yuppies named Jennifer? What? Al got in the car and turned it on and turned on the A/C, which of course, doesn’t work. Never has. He asked about it. I said it didn’t work. He put his hand in front of the air vent and smiled up at me (gold tooth flashing forth). “I think I can feel some cool air!”. Me: “Well, maybe!” (smiling). Gulp. Why was I suddenly so nervous? Was I selling a piece of shit car and not telling all? Was it me wondering if the cash he gave me was real? I was a wreck. But I just told myself, everything was going to be okay. The transaction was almost over. The receipt said, AS IS. And also, for god sakes, the car was only $250. Why was I feeling so guilty?
Because that’s your job wittykitty!! Oh!
Roger finally pulled back into the parking lot and I hoped this was almost over. I told the guy he should check the oil. He did. It was slightly low. I told him I could let him fill it up a little with some I had. When I brought the bottle to him, he just threw it in the back seat. Oh. Okay. So that was finally it. I didn’t even watch the Ford Tempo of Doom drive away. Meh. It was a pain in my ass financially for almost the entire two years I had it, so farewell, au revoir, go suck someone else’s pocket dry you evil son-of-a-bitch.
Oh! And I had a visitor this morning. The ever lovely Harold the Geek came over around 11 or 12. I didn’t really look at the clock. He looked very pensive when I opened the door, like I was going to yell at him for being a Republican again. Amazingly he had nixed the safari threads and gone for something more rough hewn with some almost-jeans, a patriotic t-shirt with stars and stripes (a Republican requirement I guess), and then a shirt over that. He was also non-shaven (purr!!) And no safari hat! Although he did throw one monkey wrench into the whole casual thang with one of those retardo...wait, I have to collect myself...earpod cell phone thingies...Argh!!
Why, Harold, why?? You almost had it going on there mon’ami and then you had to throw it all away with that ultimate dork accessory. Sob!
So anyways I said “Hi” and he was all business-like, like he always is and said, “I know that women need some kind of protection when they go into certain parts of town, so I brought you a choice of either of these....” and he opened up his hand and had two large plastic whistles.
And I was sort of like, huh? Certain parts of town? I live in the Village. And then I had this fleeting thought...hmmm, have you been reading my diary, sir? I certainly hope not, since I have been calling you a Geek and making fun of your silly safari attire. Sorry Harold. I just want you to be all that you can be, my friend. And I certainly don’t want you to get hurt by getting hooked up with the wrong person....namely me.
So I was standing there looking down at these two oversized whistles. One was red and one was black. I took the black one and said it was because “it was slimming.” But when I took it, both of his hands were shaking slightly. Was I making him nervous? Was coming to my door and knocking so traumatic that he was quivering in fear? When I asked my mom what she thought tonight she came up with her stock answer...”Well, you’re scared of everything too!”. Thanks, mom.
As soon as I took the whistle, he did an about face and started to walk away. I don’t even think he said good-bye. So I said, “Hey wait. How come you never want to talk?” and he said, “I have nothing to say.” Oh. And then I said, “How have you been?” And he said “Fine” over his shoulder. And then I asked him about his mom who just died. Its strange, but for some reason, I had thought the whole mom thing had been a ruse for the longest time. A fifty-something man living with his mom. But I guess it wasn’t because when he said something about her, he ever so briefly sounded like he was going to break down. I felt bad. He finally just walked away saying, “I hope you like the whistle, it cost less than $5.00”.
So tonight I walked over to the cemetery on my walk. I wondered if I’d be able to find where his mom was buried. Not sure why I felt the need to do that. I did find several freshly dug gravesites, but nothing with any headstones. I lost my Dad, of course, several years ago, but I never had the luxury of being able to visit his gravesite, since the filipino mail order whore won’t tell me where it is. I really miss being able to visit. Having a place to go to talk to someone I loved with all my heart. I finally just headed home and when I got to Twin Peaks, I saw my favorite little stray orange kitty, who I’ve nicknamed Olanthe, and schritched him on the ears a few times. A good day? Yes. At least now I’m $230 richer and have a whistle. Whee!
6 comments so far << | >>
upsy, downsy, upsy, splat! - 2010-05-22
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when finding a head in the recycling bin is the highlight of your month - 2010-03-28
fifty two chances to be awesome...ok maybe - 2010-02-20
its sorta like "Grease" except there's no musical numbers and I'm really old - 2010-02-05