Did you know if you do this cool thing called "letting all the oil leak out of your engine" it makes your car not work anymore?
I love how stuff works!
On a more serious note, I had to go shopping for a new minivan.
This is the most riveting thing you will ever read.
Because minivans, by their very nature, scream good-looking young people who rock hard and take down names after kicking some butt.
They are the devil's wheels.
When I drive a minivan, I am no longer my self.
Something in me groans to life; it rips through my fatty shell and births itself before the eyes of the world, all steel and hair, all double muscled and cross-eyed with hypnotic lunacy.
Women weep as I drive past in my furious chariot, they see me and long for what they cannot have.
Their men stab at their own eyes for they know they are forever bested, forever cuckolded by the god in the minivan.
Let me tell this to you in my plainest words: there is no more I and van, van and I; there is only the saber that separates the heaven of us from the hell that is all of you.
So anyways, when you shop for a car with very little money, you can't be picky.
And then we tried a dealer, but my wife didn't like the way the salesman cocked his head to the side.
Finally we found a nice Chinese family who wanted to sell their minivan.
Just writing that sentence made me feel like this blog is a horrific waste of time.
Please don't ever let me write a sentence that boring, that indicative of a complete absence of things to say again.
It means death.
Anyways, I really did not want to ride in the car alone with Blevin.
My absolute discomfort with other humans has by now been well-documented on this blog, but it is so central to who I am as a person that it cannot be overstated.
For you, Joe Shmoe or Sherry Commonperson, a ride in the car with other living things might be delightful at best, a minor annoyance at worst.
For me, it is like being disemboweled by Gumby, which means very painful and invasive, often with a sense of confusion on Gumby's part as to what his weird green hands are doing.
He looks for Pokey in vain, good old rational Pokey always does his thinking for him; but this time, this time the orange horse is no where to be found, and it's just me and my guts, steaming all over, and Gumby crying because he's in over his head, and Blevin sitting there with the insufferable mask of stoicism so prevalent on the faces of our Asiatic brothers.
I can't ride in the car with this man.
Oh, but thankfully, he was dropped off at the bank by a coworker, and actually needed a ride back with us.
"........he exhibited a great fear of touching......" (pg.49)
Having someone in your car is exactly the same as having them in your house except you can't excuse yourself to go pass gas on the basement stairs.
Your car is a window into all your flaws; your bad habits, your proclivities, you inability to aim.
And when a person first gets into your car, whatever they smell is the smell they will forever associate with you and yours.
Blevin, you gotta believe me: I shuttle the unwashed pantseats of the special educated all day; that buttfunk slapping your nose in the face right now is theirs, not mine.
What do you want me to say about that fifteen minute car ride?
In those fifteen minutes, babies were born across the globe.
Someone died of impetigo, all alone and unloved in some distant alleyway.
A horse on a forlorn hill raised its head in one of those whinny songs that only dogs can hear.
My heart ceased to beat.
Blevin breathed loudly through his nostrils.
My sons in back wondered aloud if Blevin was speaking Spanish, or if he was asleep because his eyes looked closed.
Shut up you little fools, I longed to scream, can't you see he's a Chinaman??? You're embarrassing me.
The car filled with the distinctive musk of my social anxiety.
When at last it was over, I could have done somersaults on the immaculate lawn of his subdivision home.
I felt exactly like a convicted killer going down that long walk to the electric chair, only to get the 11th hour call from the governor telling me I was free to go.
Don't tell me depressing stories of this world and its shuffle towards collapse, of humanity and its insistence on slicing its own throat.
Tell me the quiet stories of hope, the stories of men who ride with other men that they don't know, and how they somehow get to their destinations without completely freaking out.
That is a conversation I can actually contribute to.
That is a narrative of which I am proudly a part.