Garbage on Top of Garbage

This morning I decided to run some errands relatively early (okay, 8 a.m. is not early for most working people). When I got back in my car after one stop, I turned the key, and it wouldn't start. It made a bad clicking noise and wouldn't turn over. I suspected it was the battery, which had died about a month ago while I waited in the carryout parking spot at a local restaurant. Anyhoo, I was about four blocks from our usual mechanic, fortunately, so I headed over to the station, hoping the coffee I'd recently drank didn't make for a completely miserable walk.

I got there without peeing my pants and the mechanic showed up just a few minutes later. I told him where my car was and he said, "Okay, I'll give you a ride over there, I'll jump it if I can and we can bring it back here to take a look." We've used this mechanic for miscellaneous repairs for at least six years - since we moved to Park Ridge. He's always given a fair price, is really fast and always pleasant. So I feel a little bad sharing this story. A little.

We walk toward his Saturn station wagon and he says, "Hold on a sec, let me just make sure there's nothing on the seat." I open the passenger door and HOLY MOTHER OF GOD THE GARBAGE. I couldn't see the floor mat or the seat. Cigarette packs, soda cans, at least two maps, an atlas, random fast food wrappers and receipts. That was just the floor. The seat had the car lighter, more receipts and random garbage, and at least $300 in loose change. He starts scraping off the seat and says (in a tone that I like to think was jovial), "I just want to make sure there's no razor blades on here." I responded with a nervous laugh and get in. This is what it looked like after he'd "cleaned off" the seat:



So we drive the few blocks to my car and he asks something about my living nearby and can I get home okay and I said, "Yeah, I can just walk home, I'm right off Canfield." It's really about a mile walk but, if given a stop at a bathroom halfway home, I could have handled it. He kindly says, "No, no, that's too far, we can give you a ride home." I say something about needing the exercise and then we start talking about whatever might be wrong with my car. We get there and he gets it started right away and I follow him back to the station, having a newfound appreciation for car washes, vacuum cleaners and the fact that my steering wheel doesn't have a 1/2-inch layer of film on it.

Back at the station, he says, "So, just go in and fill out a ticket, and you can take my car 'cause, well, you're gonna need a car." Had I been a little quicker on my feet, I'd have just called a cab or made up something about borrowing a neighbor's car if I needed to, or having nowhere to go, anything. Instead I said, "Are you sure? I can just walk." I relent, get in the car and delicately turn the key and debate with myself whether it's safe to steer with just my fingertips. I managed to get the seatbelt on without any damage to my clothes, and fortunately it was only a two minute ride home. As soon as I got in the house I washed my hands, changed out of my clothes, showered and promptly found my camera so I could record the spectacle that was the inside of this man's car.