Sweet Chariot

Adam and I have a fistful of places that we frequent regularly. The local grocery store, the Subway just up the street, and K Street Bagel, just to name a few all of them.

If you can muscle through the embarrassment of another human being knowing how many footlong subs you ingest weekly, it's really quite nice being a regular. Peeps have got your back. Jackie at the grocery store lets us slip through customer service line, even though we're not buying lotto tickets and cigarettes. We have rapport for days with the ladies at Subway. They also know exactly how many thousands of black olives I mean when I say "I want lots and lots of black olives on that meatball sub." At K Street Bagel, the gal starts our order the second our trends cross the threshold: two egg and cheese bagels, one onion, one plain.

There is one other place that we are regulars. But it's a little like being regulars in Hell.

It's Jerry's Ford. Specifically, the auto shop at Jerry's Ford. Our Taurus, lovingly coined "The Shatbag", is there so frequently that she has her own dedicated table in the corner and her favorite waitress. The fellas know Adam like a brother and they yell, "Hey, Adam!" when he walks in.

Everybody knows his name. And he's always glad he came.

Not.

Several months ago, Adam and I took a sick day. Because we had contracted something hateful. And on our way to the store to get sick people medicine (Tylenol, DayQuil, Spaghettios), $hitty $hitty Bang Bang just flat gave up the ghost. Refused to start, laid back, and screamed, "UNCLE!"

So, we had to have that sonuhva witch towed. I called Cheers, I mean, Jerry's.

Me: Hi. Our car refuses to start, is laying back, and screaming, "UNCLE!" so we're having it towed.

Art with Jerry's: What kind of car is it?

Me: It's a white Ford Taur-a$$.

Art: Does it belong to Adam?

Me: Yep. It sure does. How'd you guess?

There's something about riding behind a tow truck, loaded down with your vehicle, that really makes you take stock of your life. Where did we come from? Why are we here? Where are we going?

When we got her back the following day, we gave her a talking to.

Actual transcribed excerpt from the aforementioned talking to:

"We want to thank you for the work you've done for us. We appreciate the effort you've shown in the past. There's been a lot of late nights and early mornings. But over the past two years, we've noticed a serious decline in your productivity and attitude toward your work. We're not able to rely on you like we once were. We see long lunches and online chatting. We even caught you napping on the job the other day. And we couldn't wake you up! This hurts us more than it hurts you, but we're giving you an ultimatum; either you give us 2007 again, or we're letting you go."

Adam made a vow right then and there that he wouldn't put another dime into The Shatbag. Then, he put the key in the engine, gave 'er a crank, and VARRROOOOMMMMM. The purr of a lioness...and the smell of burnt rubber.

Dejected, but sticking to Adam's vow, we carried that smell up and down between our house and the District until my night sweats were too much. Then, we carried that smell to the dealership and bartered for a gently used Prius...despite my pleas for an Accord.
We cried a little when we drove away and left The Shatbag alone and empty at the dealership. I'm not ashamed. She holds five years of memories in her boat-like frame: the moves, the road trips, the vacations, the errands, the backseat. Wink, wink. While there are things we hope he'll improve on (ahem, two new starters in three years?), this Prius has a lot to live up to, and we told him so.

Then, we dried our tears on the 50 MPG we got on the way home.