I do have an update entry below this post...... for now, something from a while back. I laugh reading it, that even in 2005, thinking back on something that when I was 17 I was still screaming for seatbelts. My mother did a good job of scaring us into compliance. This is from April 2005, but took place when I was 17. I refuse to do the math.
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The Car
I’ve been meaning and promising some for a long time that I would make a well known story an official entry.
The Car it is. That fucking Buick set into roll some car karma that did not leave me for many, many years.
It was a nice normal grey sedan, willed to my mother when my Ountie Barbara died. This was a death where everyone seemed to care, but the second the body went cold people turned on eachother bickering over everything down to pot holders. It was horrible.
I personally don’t remember all that much of the fray, I simply remember that Ountie Barb seemed to have a wooden spoon in a holster on her hip because the second you started fucking up it appeared like magic and /thwump, you would get it.
So one weekend my mother had to be out of town. She knew she was raising a pain in the ass teenage girl, a mouthy one no less, and she made it clear that she’d written down the odometer.
She had the number on a little scrap of paper in her purse. I was allowed 24.3 miles or some bullshit, enough to drive to and from work for two days and an extra mile to get gas if needed. I mean she wrote that shit to the wire and had driven it to get the calculation.
Well.
Friday Night.
My best friend called me, and let it be known this is the only female friend I’ve ever considered close. She called me in hysterics.
“He’s fucking that bitch again.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, we have to get a car and go kill her.”
“I don’t have the spare mileage dude.”
“You have a car, I swear we’ll find a way to fix it, please come get me.”
“To go kill a bitch?”
“Yes.”
“Alright.”
See how teenagers think?
I drove to get her, got her, and we set out to kill a bitch who was in no way guilty. It turned into a mess and cops were called because, though I never liked many girls, when I did they were just as noisy as I am.
We took off before the policia arrived and she was crying and what not. So we drove to Reno and hit the strip, batting our eyes at stupid young guys in other cars, her flashing her tits at them while I slapped her screaming SEATBELT! Lol some things never change huh.
By the time the night was over my mileage allowance was blown by about 200. My adolescent brain figured, “Fuck it, I’m already in trouble… whats another 200?”
More joyriding.
It occurred to me very fast in a wave of panic on Sunday night that my mother was coming home in 6 hours. I. Got. Scared.
My mother is the type that didn’t hit you much, because the threat of it was enough to normally make a kid comply. “I will knock your teeth into your spleen and then EAT it!” That sort of thing.
When she did hit it was just a flurry of little slaps head to toe, bitching you out the whole time. “I can’t believe you’ve MADE me need to kill you!” The hits never really hurt, they were just fast and untargeted. “Mama stop, jessus mama I’m sorry I’m sorry!” Then you basically felt like a dirt bag you disappointed her for a few days.
So there was the car. In the garage with an idiot teenager desperate to save her own ass.
I got a screw driver and dismantled the entire dash. I actually thought I could manually roll back the numbers. This did. Not. Work.
I felt a clickish sort of snap and all of a sudden the numbers were rolling completely independently of each other. It looked liked a slot machine basically.
Super Glue.
I glued them all in the right way, even giving myself that extra mile as though I’d been super good girl. In the process I broke the speedometer needle off.
More Super Glue.
My sister around then walked into the garage, took one look at what I had done and turned around without a word and went back in. I do not blame her for wanting nothing to do with THAT shit.
The car by appearances, was perfection. Once you started it however….. was a different thing altogether. The gauges teetered back and forth, they indicated the car had full gas, no oil, and was going 50mph at a dead stop.
“What’s wrong with the car?”
“Huh?”
“The car D…. whats wrong with it.”
“I dunno, was fine last time I drove it.”
I never got my ass kicked because she couldn’t quite tell what I had done. There was no body damage and the interior looked fine.
It’s been a white elephant in the house every since. I did tell her a while back, but she didn’t have a sense of humor about it as I had hoped. It’s been 12 years Mom…. Laugh a little will ya!
(End note to a very old post.... she STILL doesn't have a sense of humor about it. I don't know why, hasn't she met me? It's damn near been my job since birth to get into shit and fuck up).
-DM
