WORDS OF ADVICE: Take Care Of Your Car!!!!

You can't tell, but I'm actually sweating. And possibly dying.

You can’t tell, but I’m actually sweating. And possibly dying.

So just a few minutes ago, I was dying from heat. Those don’t leave your child in your car campaigns ain’t ever lie.

Yesterday, a fellow intern and I were driving around Pasadena, doing our thing. We left at around 11:30 to stock up on some magazines (we’re talking 150) and deliver’em out to two places. Now if you’re living around the city, you already know how disgustingly humid it’s been for the past few days. It’s nothing to glamorize about either. This is the type of hot that makes people wish they never left home. This is the type of hot that makes divorce almost instantaneous. This is the type of shit that can kill a full grown man, or at the very least, send him into an emotional downward spiral.

Well after hauling 10 boxes of heavy-ass magazines all over Pasadena , the spiritual deity of bad luck decided to bless me by blowing the fuse to the a/c.


The day was filled with bad luck already. We had been lost for over an hour searching for storage, Jenna (the other intern) and I could’ve even muster the strength to pull open the storage door, we had to use MATH, we had to maneuver all ten boxes on a thin dolly across streets and up hills, we were basically told to trespass and were then questioned by police after we had come out of the Civic Auditorium, and of course, the crème de la crème of unfortunate events just had to bestow itself on me the day the sun waved its many middle fingers. Now, I know ya’ll are like, “Neil. Shut up. It’s hotter in Africa and people are starving somewhere in Altadena. Have a seat.” First and foremost, shut up. And finally, fuck you.

I’m like, “Jenna, just roll down your window, but push the button down slowly and gently.” Rasputia, my car, has her quirks. That’s one of’em. And well, because my car has PTSD, we couldn’t even get the damn thing to roll down all the way. Thankfully, we were on our last delivery and after that, we could both enjoy the cool underneath the evergreen trees that flank the neighborhood streets of Pasadena. I drove home with the quickness, armed with an ice cold water bottle. I went on about my life with no worries until the next day.

Anyway, I forced myself out of the house to buy a new fuse (which look like cute little microchips) to repair the a/c and Lord have mercy!  As soon as I stepped out of the house, I instantly broke out in a sweat. I gripped a hold of my car door, burned myself, and pried the stupid thing open finally. Then, a gust of hot air blew out at me all at once. It was kind of like Backdraft, but with the fire actually touching you on accident. I settle myself into the car, perhaps giving myself third-degree burns as I sat my ass on the leather seats. I turned on the engine, felt as if the leather was transforming into bacon, and finally drove off to Monrovia where the BMW service store was.

So in the process of driving there, I’m sweating it so hard that I probably could’ve drowned myself. And I guess in that heat, my mind went on this blitz, over-exaggerating every inch of suffering I felt. My head went numb, I was starting to get dizzy, it was getting hard to breathe. All the while, these damn street repairs going down Duarte Rd. were fucking up the drive there. By the time I parked my car at the dealership, my once jiggling tits were suddenly set in stone. Pecs, I proclaimed as I gave the girls a little squeeze.

I walked through the sliding doors and into the cool embrace of an air conditioned building. The silver outline of the dealership made for an ambiance that I thought to be an igloo. Salvation, I said in my head. I pranced toward the service store, and asked for a new 30 amp fuse. The nice lady brought it out and asked if I needed anything else.

“Water,” I said, a raspy tone emanating from my dry throat as I reached out to her for sympathy. Her right eyebrow arched in intrigue as she pointed me to the styrafoam cups at the corner of the room. At the center of the table, a water dispenser. “Red is hot, black is cold.”

I jetted out the door and into my car, which, because I had my windows opened the whole time, cooled down the interior just a bit. I jammed the keys into the ignition, twisted, and in my shaky, recovering condition from all this damn heat, hauled my ass out and home.

Now, I don’t think I ever asked for this but with the way that I treat Rasputia (my car), this is due punishment. All the times that I never flipped off the a/c after I’ve parked my car, the times I speed through dips like my car can even take it, the times I curve around sharp turns, perhaps slamming the tail into something without a care in the world – it all came down to a small, very minor problem that, in return, proved to be hell for me and would probably have sent me straight to the loony bin had I continued driving her without a/c.

So if there’s a lesson to be learned, it’s simply this: take care of your damn car. Spoil it, Damnit. I never really thought about how much I’ve enjoyed my car because I’ve been lugging the thing around to almost every place that I hate, i.e. college and work. But in this cheesy retrospect that I’m looking at in a cute, white vignette, this car inadvertently made me money, helped me strengthen my relationships with friends and family, made some of my wildest dreams come true, and obviously got me from point a to point b.

I’ve always been taught to respect my elders. And since Rasputia was born in 1995 (that’s an elder in the car world), I should, in turn, respect her.

About neilprotacio

Freelance journalist who just so happens to know what goes well with certain breads.
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