Blast from the Past

Oh yeah.

It's time. I've been Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky for too long. Let the angst flow.

You see I have been driving The Bucket for too long. For those of you not in the know, The Bucket is my car. It's short for Bucket of Shit, or Rusty Bucket, both apply. It's an '88 VW Jetta with 250,000 miles. No shit. 250k. I got the car after a really shitty time in my life and was the "vehicle of change" for me. It's helped me get my life back together, but for $800, what can you expect? High miles, it smelled of wet dog; the interior was shot, tires were worn out, rusting to pieces, had a new tranny and exhaust and when it ran, it ran like a striped-assed ape (that's 'hauls ass' for you city-folk). But it had no AC, rattled and banged, and generally scared the hell outta everybody who got in it. When I had a company vehicle, I let it sit for 8 months, and when I got it started, it passed smog first try. For this, it earned a chrome plated, one pound, red-eyed skull shifter knob. Because it cannot be killed.

This summer, it didn't get hot outside until August, but when it did, everybody was miserable. Especially me in the ol' blue Bucket. I redid the brakes on it, nearly suffering from heatstroke in the process. I have put innumerable hours cussing and busting knuckles over this goddamn Kraut-fuckin' sumbitchin' metric mother-effin' piece-of-German-payback-for-whipping-their-ass-in-WWII piece of shit. Oh, and parts are expensive. I spent the summer sweating my hairy red balls off, just being an ass on the road to everybody else because I knew the pampered SOB's had air conditioning. The last straw came when I was on my way to work one morning after being in court, and my accelerator cable snapped. Through the grace of Jeebus and one smart girlfriend, I still managed to get to work by 10am. But it was time. The bitch had pulled my last straw.

I had met a guy who was driving a Caprice SS, which is a retired cop car "cloned' to look like an Impala SS. Cheaper than an Impala, but actually is tougher and has more performance. In addition to an LT1 Corvette motor, it has a Suburban frame and all sorts of other shit to make it suitable for our boys in blue to catch and take out bad guys. And to top it off, it has four doors. I need those, for I have a Monster named Tyler, and my girl has me on deck for two more. I figured if I was gonna own a "grocery-getter", it was gonna go get some damn groceries! 5.7 liter, 350 cubic inches, 260 horsepower of getting some groceries, dammit!

So Regina and I got me a car. THE car. I look like Detective Dickfer, with my "collared-shirts-because-I'm-the-Boss", mirror tint Oakleys, and conservative haircut. This thing is a 95 with 72k miles on it, spotlight on the driver's side and emergency flashers when you open the trunk, and the coup de gracie, black powdercoated rims with the chrome center cap, serious cop wheels. And it will smoke the tires for days! Biff: "I have a new Mustang GT!" Me: "Buh-ring it, biiatch!" I'm gonna eat that pony alive!

Or I was. GoddamnMotherfuckingSumbitchinCocksmokingPeterpuffinTurdburgalinNotOneSingleBreakforBigDaddyFat!

Gotta give props to my boy Oscar, when O said, "You know you’re buying someone else’s problem.” Fucker jinxed me, but he was right.

Did you know that starters for the LT1 are more rare than the Holy Grail? Some shit about big-ass flywheel, high torque sumbitch that makes it harder to find than a needle in a stack of needles. So the search begins.

I started at the local parts store, the day the damn thing quit me. I had to commit the Saturday that I wanted to spend with the girly to the damn car. No problems, an hour, maybe two. The damn thing didn’t fit. So I began the hunt, local stores were no dice, had to head down into LA. Not real friendly to Whitey driving a Civic, but you gotta do what ya gotta do.

I hit the store, walked in and was pretty impressed. This place was huge and the staff was way cool. Big time help, but they didn’t have the part. Somewhere in the span of the hour and a half while they were trying to get the right part, I made buddies with this greaseball burnout guy. At the time, I was just interested in helping the guy so he would get his smelly ass away from me. I thought he was just some dirtball with long greasy hair that smelled of superfunk. He thinks that he’s made a new best friend, so he brings in his battery for the guys to charge for him and starts standing WAY too close. I mean, too close for the cleanest yuppie-tie-wearing-manicured-and-pedicured fool. I got a thing about my personal space. And BurnOut was way too close. As I move back from him, he just moves closer. I think to myself that I shouldn’t incite this guy to riot, he has that speed freak gleam in his eye and some serious hygiene issues, I really don’t wanna get in a scrape. Who knows what kinda shit you’d develop after actual physical contact. So I start talking with my hands, like my Grandma after I used her knitting needles to punch holes in her favorite couch. He backs up, and I can calm the flagellations. He invites me outside to check out his Buick, and I decline politely. I tell him I don’t want the parts guy to come out and not see me, he has my starter. After this, BurnOut starts regaling me with stories of his tricked out Hemi ‘Cuda, “Back in the day, maaaan, that Hemi was the shit. But my Ratt was even better, duuude.” Not that he has enough problems, but he’s also a shitty liar. I guess when he fried the brain cells for cognizant thought and speech it affected his bullshitting skills. I have to stand and listen to this crap pouring from his filthy hole, smiling all the while. Anyway, parts guy comes up and let me know I’m shit outta luck. I thought I was free and clear, tell BurnOut that I gotta roll, thank the parts guy and start on my way to the Honda. “Check out my Buick duuude.” I tell him he ought to wait on his battery. “Naw maaan, these guys are waaay cool.”

BurnOut follows me. Fuck. “Come check out my Buick duuude. I bought it for my mom. She’s sixty-five and it’s her first car maaan. She really loves this car. I wanna trick it out, Edelbrock intake, Holley monster carb, Flowmasters, the works maaan. It’s gonna rock, maaan! I wanna lower it, blah, blah, blah, wokka wokka wokka…” He just won’t shut up. So I’m thinking if I get closer to my car, I’m off like a prom dress. If I can get in the car, he can’t catch me, he ain’t got no frickin’ battery. Sayonara, Stinkball. I walk around the building to my car, and he’s leading the way, jabbering. His mom comes crawling out of the car, and it hits me, these people live in their damn car. Mom is an old bag of bones, and just as crazy as her son. Smells about the same, too. They start telling me that they wanted me to be careful, because the thugs shot holes all through their ride. I started feeling bad for mom who has to live in a car with BurnOut; she’s a pitiful sight. I almost want to give them money but I know that if I whip out my cash, I might get taken out. Fuck that. I may have some compassion, but I ain’t stupid. They point me over to another parts joint across the street, and I thank them and haul ass. I think I need a bath.

I get over to the next place and walk in. It doesn’t look like much, but they are working in the garage and it’s got a lazy atmosphere. There are parts and motor blocks all over the parking area and entryway to the garage, I can hear somebody waylaying something with a big ass hammer. I walk in and the two Mexican guys inside are standing there drinking Coronas. Right on, wouldn’t wanna see that from my dentist or vascular surgeon, but your parts guy, it’s all good. So we start going through the motions of trying to find this bitch of a part. We’re not having any luck, he’s on the phone and I’m talking to his buddy about the game. Out of nowhere this fucking big ass rooster ninjas up behind me and busts out with an ear splitting “COCK-A-DOODLE-MOTHERFUCKIN-DOO!” I react appropriately by shitting my pants and nearly jumping over the parts counter. Goddamn, that was all wrong. While I’m trying to regain my composure and make real sure I didn’t crap on my shoes, homeys are nearly crying in their cervezas. I very nearly kicked the stuffing out of that damn bird when he cranked out another yell. The guys won’t stop laughing, I can hear the guy on the other end of the phone asking what was going on. That fucking bird must fucking die. After he catches his breath, parts guy tells me I will have to wait for another few days, but he could get me the part.

Thanks, no thanks, I’m out, with the bird following. Bastard was crowing the whole way, chasing me to my car. I hop in a little faster than what is generally considered cool, thinking if I back out fast enough I might be able to clip the feathered fucker. Gaddamn bird.

As I am headed back to the house it dawns on me that I have wasted an entire day chasing a part. Fuck this, I am greasy, tired, frustrated and I can’t get the ass/armpit/simple chronic halitosis smell of BurnOut out of my nose. Oh, and I got punked by a bastard yard bird.

Fuck this, I’m going drinking. See ya.