And Detroit knows it, because it wanted to keep me there. The job I was in Michigan for became suddenly complicated on my last day, and it started to look like my plane ticket was increasingly becoming obsolete. However, I went the distance and was allowed to head toward the airport in a faint smug fashion...perhaps...too smug? The car I had rented, the PT Cruiser, served me well for 18 days of incident-free traveling. Until, that is, it knew I would be leaving it. I took the exit off of I-94 to return the car and, a mere half mile from the National rental facility, the car started shaking like Michael J. Fox on the Tilt-a-Whirl. As I slowed to a crawling fifteen miles and hour, I suffered a barrage of expletives from inconsiderate truckers who seemed unable to hear my suggestions that they fuck their mothers over the deafening vibrations of my car. As soon as possible, I pulled over to the curb expecting a flat tire. What I found was an exploded tire:

It was then that I vowed that this backwards, sissy state of Michigan WOULD NOT DENY ME MY RETURN TO MY PEOPLE. I called National and they sent a gentleman caller:

A few seconds before he was finished, I wiped his chin a little bit...NO, OF COURSE I DIDN'T. A few seconds before he was finished, he asked, "You DID rent with National right?"
It was ALL I could do to not run with this and make my new mechanic friend think he just spent fifteen minutes changing the tire of a Thrifty customer. Unfortunately, all I wanted was to be done with this place, so I gave him an emphatic YES and a smack on the ass and I was on my way.
Safely on the plane, I chuckled to myself a little bit. Then I cried. Then I enjoyed my complimentary beverage. Then I got home. Then I watched House M.D. Then I saw Brenda, who looked more beautiful than anyone ever. Needless to say, all of Tuesday felt like getting released from jail.
3 comments:
Was he like, "Is this tool seriously standing there taking my picture?"
And then you took the camera away from the crobar.
Lame. I know.
He actually said, "Sir, did you play a song with this tire? Because it B flat."
Let me go on record as saying that's the worst joke I've ever told.
worst, best, it's all relative.
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