So, uh..this one time at band camp…
…wait, that’s a different story
But, both include crazy.
I know, right?
I had to have my car’s window-driver-uppy-thingy (it’s an industry term, trust me) fixed this summer.
I was driving home from the store when SNAP! BAM! BANG! The thingy-bobber that holds the doo-hickey what holds up the glass in the window went ka-flooie.
I’m telling you, I got all these terms from my “Service Advisor”.
Anyway, since this happened on a Sunday, and I couldn’t wait for days to get it fixed, I had to have it done at my local dealership the next day.
I dropped the car off at 7:00 a.m. and waited in the “Guest Lounge”, complete with “FREE Wi-Fi” and donuts, for the “Courtesy Van” driver to give me a ride home.
The kid that gave me a ride home was clean-cut, well-dressed, and about as polite a young man as I’d ever encountered. He truly restored my faith in those crazy kids these days.
When we got to my house I asked him if he’d be the one picking me up, and he said if it was before noon yes but if not it would be “the afternoon guy”.
My car was ready at 3:00 p.m., so I go “the afternoon guy”. Only my morning driver forgot to one very important word.
The word is “crazy”.
So, I got “the crazy afternoon guy”.
He looked normal enough, as I climbed into the van for the (thankfully) short trip to the dealership.
Looks are sooooooooo deceiving sometimes, amiright?
The second my ass hit the seat, and he was backing out of the driveway having to stop for the young Hispanic mother pushing a stroller past my house, he mutters “f*9$ing wetbacks” under his breath.
I thought maybe the batteries in my hearing aid needed replacing.
Then I remembered I don’t wear hearing aids.
By then, though, it was too late to say anything.
I was busy holding on for dear life as we screamed down the street, me jokingly saying “the speed limit is 30 through here, and the police do patrol my neighborhood.”
“It’s no wonder,” he replied looking at the ramshackle homes next to the nice ones, “I can imagine the kind of people you have here.”
Squaring my shoulders around to face him, I said, “Yes, they are very nice people. Very. Nice.” and gave him an icy stare.
He stared straight ahead at the road, hands tightly gripping the steering wheel.
We were silent for about five minutes when he began to regale me of stories about him and his Hispanic friends skipping school years ago and getting high while playing on the PS2.
I’m not sure what kind of reaction he was expecting. Did he think I’d be impressed? I wasn’t. Did he’d think I would relate? I didn’t.
Having nothing to add to the conversation, I sat silent, hoping he’d take the hint.
He didn’t, and as he sped down the road, weaving in and out of traffic, he went on describing his escapades as a teenager – and how, at 28, he didn’t “do those kinds of things anymore”.
I didn’t care at that point, I just wanted the ride to end and hoped I’d be able to release my death-grip on the armrest when we stopped.
Finally, he turned down a side street I didn’t recognize, but which he assured me was “a shortcut”.
I said I’d take his word for it.
He grinned at me and said, “It’s not like I’m going to take you out into the woods and leave you there.”
I laughed, not finding it funny, and thanked God that the “woods” to which he referred was just a stand of trees near some railroad tracks.
A few minutes later we got to the dealership. I was glad to be back in the pool of sharks, and as I ready my stuff to get out of the car the afternoon guy couldn’t resist a parting shot.
“Yep, a lot of my friends were wetbacks…but now them sand n*($%#s, ain’t nobody got not use for them.”
I was rendered speechless.
Until I saw my “Service Advisor”.
When I was done telling him about my enlightening afternoon ride in the “Courtesy Van”, he was the speechless one.