-=(Sagien)=-

And Then it Exploded

We're about to recount the tale of what could've possibly been the worst day ever.

Ever.

It started out well enough. I was feeling great and even ahead of schedule, only having hit the snooze button once. Today was going to be on time day. I haven't had one of those in awhile.

I make my way to pick up my newspapers to deliver. Eight bundles worth at fifty papers per bundle in addition to eight bundles of inserts were placed inside of my car by the overly surprised man at the warehouse.

"Did your watch break?" he asked.

"Huh?" I said.

"You're about an hour and a half early."

"So I am.."

I drove away and started bagging the papers. I consider myself a master at the art of putting individual newspapers in bags while driving.

The beginning half of the route went rather uneventfully. About halfway though, after puling out of a dirt road, my tire pops.

Fuck.

So I pull the vehicle over and pulled out my cell phone.

No signal.

Fuck.

I walk over to the trunk of the car, where the spare tire is normally kept and opened it. It was filled with trash. It was filled to overflowing with leftover newspapers, empty bottles of coolant, washer fluid, transmission fluid and steering fluid. I start to dig.

Before long, I had a respectable pile of trash next to my car, and the spare still wasnt out. It took another five minutes of digging before I got it out. Once that was accomplished, I checked my phone again.

One bar! Woo!

I call my boss to let him know what's going on. He picks up, says two words, and then I lost him.

He calls me back.

I lost the call.

It took about fifteen phone calls before I was actually able to convey my present status to him.

I begin changing the tire. Nothing is more annoying and satisfyingly manly at the same time as the act of switching out an automobile's flat tire. Nothing, that is, until the cop who was helpfully blocking traffic for you as you change your tire in the midst of a curve points out that the donut you're using looks like it belongs on a bicycle.

After changing out the problem in manly fashion(arms on hips, checking out the scenery pose..accentuate arm muscles.. and beer gut), I went to turn the car on. My triumph was short lived.

The battery was dead.

Ever have a policeman laugh at your misery? It isn't very amusing. So I asked Joe Police for a jump.

Policemen do not carry jumper cables. It's a good thing I had my own.

We jump the car and it lives again. I left it on idle to charge up the battery while I loaded my stuff in the trunk. Ah, yes, the little hill I created didn't particularly please Joe Police.

And then it happened. The engine sputtered and then it died. This time, it refused to be jumped again.

I went another round with the low signal phone, this time only needing to make five phone calls to get in touch with my father. He said he'll be over to rescue me.

Joe Police helped me push the car to a safer, straighter part of the road and then he left. My father shows up fifteen minutes later, armed to the teeth with remarks about the irresponsibility of his son. He transfers my papers over into his brand spankin new Chevy Avalanche. I got to drive it.

He made me drop him off at Denny's and told me to finish up my route while he waited there. I wished I was going to Denny's too. The rest of the route in the mighty Avalanche went without incident, and at 8:45 AM, I went to pick my father up.

We went back to the desolate scene that is my car. We gave it another jump. It roars into life, and this time not even sputtering or anything. I started to drive home.

One mile later, it dies again.

Feeling very manly at that point, I pushed the car to the side of the road myself. I even refused the offered help of a passing motorist.

Five phone calls later, my father is on his way again to rescue me.

We gave it another jump and it springs to life. Dad suggested that I left it running for 20 minutes before driving. Since my car didn't like to be idle, I had to give it some gas while its parked. No problem, that is exactly what I did.

Ten minutes into the venture, the engine began to sputter.

"Oh no you don't!" I thought, and gave it even more gas. This seemed to help for about half a minute and then it sputtered again. More gas!

At this point the engine is revving heavily. The exhaust seemed extra busy pumping out some smoke. It sputters again. More gas! Again!

And then it died. I left the driver's seat to look at the commotion at the engine. All this smoke was coming out of everywhere.

And then it exploded.

The radiator just called it quits and started spitting out hot, steaming coolant. Geysers were forming from anywhere the radiator was attached to.

And that's that. I decided right then and there that the car was more trouble than its worth. I gathered my personal belongings from it and called the scrap yard and donated it. They laughed when I asked if I was getting money for my donation.

R.I.P 1991 Chevrolet Corsica - under my ownership from 11-04 til 7-05. We will always remember you.

Posted by sagien at July 29, 2005 12:12 PM