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Dec. 28th, 2004 01:23 amFor those who keep track of such things, I'm not currently 'lying dead in a ditch somewhere'. I am, in fact, slouched dead in my computer chair. An evening that was SUPPOSED to end with the hour and a half combo drive from Arlington to Columbia and then back to Bowie became a three hour monster that included three police pursuits (none of them me, though the first culprit nearly collided with the ass end of the Explorer before he realized that watching what was AHEAD of him was just a bit more important than what was behind him) and the good Samaritan stop from hell.
The first 45 minutes of it went flawlessly; I dropped Megan at the apartment, grabbed a couple bits I needed, and rolled back out bound for the Most Comfy Bed EverTM. As I pulled out onto 32, the first of the pursuits shot down the ramp behind me, giving me a sudden flash of panic as the car being chased was suddenly so close to the truck that I couldn't see his headlights. I punched the accellerator and dove for the shoulder, and Mr Maniac and the Fuzz chaser rocketed by me. Fast enough that the truck rocked. I've no clue where they ended up, and am thankful that the nutjob didn't end up parked in the cargo bay of the Ford.
A second pair of lunatic-chased-by-police shot by me just past the No Such Agency gates. I simply pulled off out of the way when I saw the beacons coming up, and let 'em by. Sitting at a traffic light on Rte 3, the third pair shot across the highway from side road to side road. Via con Dios, ossifer.
At this point I've got the cruise control set at 5mph BELOW the speed limit and am jumpy as hell. It's a FEAKING MONDAY NIGHT, people. WtF is wrong with you loons? Anyway.
The 7-Eleven north of Crofton is a normal stop for me... grab a bit of dinner, maybe a soda, roll on the rest of the way to where I'm staying. In the parking lot was a little old lady with a very battered mid-70's (I had a 74, I know the body style) Chevy Impala... with the hood up and peering at the magical mystical workings of the engine. Hrm. Normal police patrols were probably all shot to hell by the earlier excitement, so I stepped over to see if I could help. I know a -couple- of tricks, which is to say only a few, but they usually suffice with OldIron.
"It's making a sort of a scritching noise in the thingamabob..."
I should've run like hell at that point, gone past the turn for Crys and Kelly's, and just hit the Wawa instead. These are the reasons why I argue with people when they say I'm 'smart'; a smart person would've fled upon hearing those words. No, not me. As I'm standing there trying to think of SOMETHING that'd make a scritching noise, she complimented me on my 'pretty shoes and lovely features'... and that I'd be just perfect for her grandson. *facepalms* Poor deluded granny. Even if the plumbing were fixed already, my kinks would likely break him... or so I so arrogantly believed.
She goes on to tell me that her grandson (the one she seemed pondering inflicting me on) and his 5yo son had very helpfully changed her oil while she visited them earlier. And then she left me staring at the 'scritching' that was coming from the 350cid 'thingamabob', her grandson finally returning her call. She stepped a few paces away, but it was still well within my hearing range. Hrm. Well, first things first. I rolled underneath and doublechecked that the filter was in, snug, and not pouring oil on the street... and encountered the cleanest undercarriage I've ever seen in my life. We're talking showroom clean here. No oil, no residue, no leaks. I rolled back out from under the car in time to hear '... and she seems such a -nice- young lady and she likes cars... I could get her number for you...'.
This kind of shit is only supposed to happen in movies and comic strips. Last I checked, I still qualified as 'whale life form' on most folks visual scanners, and the down filled ski jacket does NOT help that. I addlibbed... I interrupted her to have her relay a question: what else got worked on besides the oil change? The answer I got back from the lady was 'Hold on, dearie... he said he needed to check something. He's a tall one, he is. Likes -healthy- girls like you. I could get him to come down if you'd like...?.
I'm desperate now, in more ways that emotional; standing out in the cold after the five cups of coffee I had over dinner were making my bladder a bit uppity. Oil change... goes most often with a lube job, a tune up, or any kind of major engine work. Impulse made me reach for the air cleaner housing, which bonged in that magical way that says HEY STUPID YOU FORGOT TO PUT THE FILTER IN! The cover came off as the grandson (Wilhelm, of all things), came back sounding panicky that he'd found his son playing with the air filter... and an empty bag that had contained oversized marbles.
Yes, the marbles were in the air cleaner housing. I have ZERO clue how that made a scritching sound, but that made 'the funny noise' go away. I grabbed a rag from the box of mixed bits I had in the Explorer and mopped up my hands. Little old lady was rescued, car was running, and I could go my way. I slipped into the 7 to grab dinner, paid, and headed back for the truck... to find granny waiting there with -pictures- of the grandson. 'Wilhelm' is a 6'6" powerlifter, home over the holidays from where ever his last competition was. We're talking brick wall with a head, here. And as I'm trying to keep from making the frightened squeak that was sounding in my mind, she's telling me that his first wife left because of 'marital difficulties', and then confided that the girl had taken a dislike to being spanked... and went into such frank detail in other matters that >I< blushed. Deeply.
I still don't remember what I said. It was a terrified bleat that gave me enough time to leg it to the truck and flee. Yes, I ran. There's something entirely unnerving about a 70-something granny knowing THAT MUCH detail of her grandson's sex life. I can face crazed druggies with guns. I can handle beligerant biker lesbians wielding butter knives. I can even stare down a cat. This? Knowing what the probable reaction said powerlifter would have to finding a gearshift where a main seal should be? Nononono. I ran.
I'm going to go pass out now. I just can't face anything else today.
The first 45 minutes of it went flawlessly; I dropped Megan at the apartment, grabbed a couple bits I needed, and rolled back out bound for the Most Comfy Bed EverTM. As I pulled out onto 32, the first of the pursuits shot down the ramp behind me, giving me a sudden flash of panic as the car being chased was suddenly so close to the truck that I couldn't see his headlights. I punched the accellerator and dove for the shoulder, and Mr Maniac and the Fuzz chaser rocketed by me. Fast enough that the truck rocked. I've no clue where they ended up, and am thankful that the nutjob didn't end up parked in the cargo bay of the Ford.
A second pair of lunatic-chased-by-police shot by me just past the No Such Agency gates. I simply pulled off out of the way when I saw the beacons coming up, and let 'em by. Sitting at a traffic light on Rte 3, the third pair shot across the highway from side road to side road. Via con Dios, ossifer.
At this point I've got the cruise control set at 5mph BELOW the speed limit and am jumpy as hell. It's a FEAKING MONDAY NIGHT, people. WtF is wrong with you loons? Anyway.
The 7-Eleven north of Crofton is a normal stop for me... grab a bit of dinner, maybe a soda, roll on the rest of the way to where I'm staying. In the parking lot was a little old lady with a very battered mid-70's (I had a 74, I know the body style) Chevy Impala... with the hood up and peering at the magical mystical workings of the engine. Hrm. Normal police patrols were probably all shot to hell by the earlier excitement, so I stepped over to see if I could help. I know a -couple- of tricks, which is to say only a few, but they usually suffice with OldIron.
"It's making a sort of a scritching noise in the thingamabob..."
I should've run like hell at that point, gone past the turn for Crys and Kelly's, and just hit the Wawa instead. These are the reasons why I argue with people when they say I'm 'smart'; a smart person would've fled upon hearing those words. No, not me. As I'm standing there trying to think of SOMETHING that'd make a scritching noise, she complimented me on my 'pretty shoes and lovely features'... and that I'd be just perfect for her grandson. *facepalms* Poor deluded granny. Even if the plumbing were fixed already, my kinks would likely break him... or so I so arrogantly believed.
She goes on to tell me that her grandson (the one she seemed pondering inflicting me on) and his 5yo son had very helpfully changed her oil while she visited them earlier. And then she left me staring at the 'scritching' that was coming from the 350cid 'thingamabob', her grandson finally returning her call. She stepped a few paces away, but it was still well within my hearing range. Hrm. Well, first things first. I rolled underneath and doublechecked that the filter was in, snug, and not pouring oil on the street... and encountered the cleanest undercarriage I've ever seen in my life. We're talking showroom clean here. No oil, no residue, no leaks. I rolled back out from under the car in time to hear '... and she seems such a -nice- young lady and she likes cars... I could get her number for you...'.
This kind of shit is only supposed to happen in movies and comic strips. Last I checked, I still qualified as 'whale life form' on most folks visual scanners, and the down filled ski jacket does NOT help that. I addlibbed... I interrupted her to have her relay a question: what else got worked on besides the oil change? The answer I got back from the lady was 'Hold on, dearie... he said he needed to check something. He's a tall one, he is. Likes -healthy- girls like you. I could get him to come down if you'd like...?.
I'm desperate now, in more ways that emotional; standing out in the cold after the five cups of coffee I had over dinner were making my bladder a bit uppity. Oil change... goes most often with a lube job, a tune up, or any kind of major engine work. Impulse made me reach for the air cleaner housing, which bonged in that magical way that says HEY STUPID YOU FORGOT TO PUT THE FILTER IN! The cover came off as the grandson (Wilhelm, of all things), came back sounding panicky that he'd found his son playing with the air filter... and an empty bag that had contained oversized marbles.
Yes, the marbles were in the air cleaner housing. I have ZERO clue how that made a scritching sound, but that made 'the funny noise' go away. I grabbed a rag from the box of mixed bits I had in the Explorer and mopped up my hands. Little old lady was rescued, car was running, and I could go my way. I slipped into the 7 to grab dinner, paid, and headed back for the truck... to find granny waiting there with -pictures- of the grandson. 'Wilhelm' is a 6'6" powerlifter, home over the holidays from where ever his last competition was. We're talking brick wall with a head, here. And as I'm trying to keep from making the frightened squeak that was sounding in my mind, she's telling me that his first wife left because of 'marital difficulties', and then confided that the girl had taken a dislike to being spanked... and went into such frank detail in other matters that >I< blushed. Deeply.
I still don't remember what I said. It was a terrified bleat that gave me enough time to leg it to the truck and flee. Yes, I ran. There's something entirely unnerving about a 70-something granny knowing THAT MUCH detail of her grandson's sex life. I can face crazed druggies with guns. I can handle beligerant biker lesbians wielding butter knives. I can even stare down a cat. This? Knowing what the probable reaction said powerlifter would have to finding a gearshift where a main seal should be? Nononono. I ran.
I'm going to go pass out now. I just can't face anything else today.
