Someone must be praying over my blog.
Last night, as I was taking out the trash, I saw our old '77 Phoenix sitting on the grass, where Joel, Paul and I had pushed it out of the way — it took all three of us — so that we could paint the shed. I'd been trying to get it running again for months — years? — now, and I was just about ready to call the junkyard to come and get it.
Maybe moving it to a different place will have made some difference, I thought, as I deposited my trash, and walked over to look at it wistfully. I banged the passenger door open and closed a few times. But even if it did run, how would I keep the door shut? On a whim, I punched the lock knob down — that's how old this is thing is, it has little plungers for the locks — and gave the door a half-hearted swing. It closed. And locked.
How many times had I tried that before? A hundred? Two hundred times? Why did it work this time? I silently vowed never to open that door again.
If that worked, maybe I should try starting it again. I slunk into the driver's seat with some apprehension.
Chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy.
I paused in a sad way.
Chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-boom-boom-shibbidy-boom chibbidy.
Wait, what was that?
Chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-shibbidy chibbidy-boom-shibbidy chibbidy-boom-boom-shibbidy-boom chibbidy. Chibbidy-shibbidy-boom boom-boom-boom chibbidy-boom-boom badbadabadabada-ROOOOOOOOOM.
Black soot scorched the grass. A great foul cloud enveloped the landscape. The beast roared. And I sat there, scared. Dear God, it started. It runs. The door closes. What does that mean? What's going to happen that I need to have this thing running? My eyes were wide with amazement and incomprehension. I drove it around the block a few times, scarcely daring to believe.
I started to head out to put some fresh gas in it, but it occurred to me that Deborah thought I was just taking out the trash. So I headed back inside. After supper, it started again, and I got some input from my car-parts store on a good course of action to deal with the after-effects of a long dormant period. (Turns out the guy restores old Moto Guzzis. We swapped stories.) Two of the guys came out of the shop just to have a look at it. That's a great old car, they said.
The Church of All Cynics
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