With Spit and a
Prayer
by Eric Miller
My car broke
down in a tunnel at the peak of rush hour, and I
hadn't loaned it to anyone. It was me, and me
alone, who sat there in plain view, having single-handedly
brought a city to its knees. On a zero to ten
scale of stress, it was an eleven. And then, to
make matters worse, the tow truck driver couldn't
stop laughing at me when I instructed him to take
my car to Clutch Wheeler's dealership.
"Why are
you laughing," I asked, defensively.
"Everyone
knows that Clutch sells dreams and services cars
with spit and a prayer. No wonder your car can't
even make it through a short tunnel without
breaking down," he replied.
As much as I
loved Clutch, I knew the truck driver was right.
Clutch specializes in people like me, who only
want something basic which will get you from here
to there and back again. Whenever my car
needs to be serviced, Clutch picks it up, loans
me a car, and returns it. Whenever I need a
new car, Clutch asks me what I want, but sells me
whatever he has, which is never what I selected.
"I think
its time that you replace the car," he
announced sadly. "It can't be fixed. It's
served you well. I think we should junk it."
"Okay,
Clutch, get me a new one. Don't ask me what I
want, or what color I prefer, because I know that
you will come up with something else, but that's
fine," I said.
And that's
exactly what he did. Moreover, I did recognize my
old car being driven around town by a little old
lady, like all my other cars that couldn't be
fixed.
Later that
week, my wife and I drove in our new car to a
dinner party. In the middle of dinner, the
door bell rings, and in walks Dr. Kingsley Kidd,
a local pediatrician who lived across the street
from our hosts.
"Oh,
please forgive me," he whines, rubbing his
hands, and sweating profusely, "but I just
backed into a Grand Turbo Charger Coupe LX395. I
am so, so sorry."
Nobody reacted.
"Hello
out there! Who here owns a Grand Turbo
Coupe LX395?," our gracious hostess asked,
looking around the table at each guest, as she
awaited an answer which never came.
"It's a
black and silver car, with license plate number
GHA7498," Kingsley added.
"What
color did you say?," I asked, jumping up.
"Black
and silver."
"Does it
look new?," I asked.
"Not
anymore," he whimpered. "But don't
worry, I will pay for all damages. Just take it
to my car dealer, Clutch Wheeler, and tell him to
bill me."
"It's as
good as new," Clutch said when I picked it
up.
"But
Clutch, this isn't my car?," I noted.
"What's
the difference, kiddo? I billed Dr. Kidd like you
told me to."
My stress
level rose as I realized my life, as well as my
car, was held together with spit and a prayer.
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