The Curse of the Pimpmobile
Story from last week that I never got around to telling. It's the tale of a car gone mad, the hideous story of a vehicle out for revenge. Now, I'm not saying the pimpmobile is possessed or anything, but the facts are: 1) the car was owned by my grandmother with whom I have gone in and out of favor with over the years 2) the car obviously hates me.
Adam and I are driving along Route 1A on our way to Swampscott for a party extraordinaire. This is a former coworker of Adam's who now lives in San Fran, but his folks are still out here, and they hold an annual party on July 3. Adam's friend and his girlfriend are also out, as an added bonus, so we're psyched to go. We leave Natick, MA, at 6:43 p.m. It is a one-hour drive. At 7:17 p.m., in the Callahan Tunnel, I say to Adam, "What's that noise?" It's a flap-flap-flap-flap-flap noise. It slows down when we slow down. "Hmmm, must be something in the trunk that's rustling." Drive a little farther. At 7:21 p.m., I ask, "Is that noise getting louder?" At 7:23 p.m. I pull into the Wonderland Marketplace in Revere, MA, with a flat tire flatter than... (well, insert your own derogatory remark about someone you know. I was thinking about picking on Sandra, but I will let the moment pass). No problem. Adam can fix a flat. True, he's never fixed a flat before, but it's simple! And we have a full-sized spare. Except...
This is the pimpmobile. She's not called the pimpmobile for nothing. The pimpmobile has custom tires with wheel covers. Gold wheel covers. And the wheel covers are screwed on. With a screw obviously put in with an air drill by the Toyota service folks who aligned my tires. A stripped screw obviously put in with an air drill. It ain't budging. At 7:29 p.m., the call goes in to AAA (man, have we gotten our money's worth this year).
We wait. And wait. And wait. Big burly men come by and try to help, convinced that they can overpower the screw. They can't. They slink off in defeat. A white-trash girl drives into the lot, a boy jumps out screaming, "Have a nice life, you piece of shit," and begins running with all his might. The girl hauls out of the car, yells, "Get your fucking ass back here!" and tears after him. 8:04 p.m. Triple A calls. They can't find us. They'll be there in a minute. Adam and I begin trying to flag down any pickup that looks remotely like a tow truck. Only in Revere, where they raise trucks and add lights, that's every pickup.
At 8:24 p.m. I call back. "Oh, right. They'll be there in 10 minutes."
8:35 p.m., the surliest tow truck driver comes by. Gets up to the tire, snorts at Adam, and then goes at the screw. At 8:37, he gives up. Mumbles, "Gotta go back to the shop for tools." At 8:42, he returns with a drill and by 8:45 our spare is in place. Adam uses the Huggie wipes in the road pack my friends made me (and I laughed at them! Very useful thing!), and off we got to Swampscott.
Or so we think. This being the 3rd of July, there are fireworks. (Okay, so this sentence makes no sense to me. Everywhere that I've been, fireworks have been on the 4th of July. Not around the 4th of July. What is with this place?). Our directions take us right by the beach. Which is blocked off. For fireworks. From Revere, MA, to Swampscott, MA (which by the way, is a cool name. Try saying it with me. Swampscott. Swampscott. Nice flow), is about 10 or 15 minutes. If there are no fireworks. If you don't get lost.
I'll skip the three phone calls for directions. I'll skip the waitingwaitingwaitingwaitingwaiting in traffic. I'll forget our hunger and fatigue because our day was so busy all we'd had was Dunkin Donuts and coffee.
Finally, at 10:42 p.m. we arrive at the bbq that started at 7 p.m. Bless Marc for putting more ribs on the grill for us and handing me that beer.
Moral of the story: No custom tires. No locked lug nuts. No not eating all day. And most of all, that car HATES me!
Story from last week that I never got around to telling. It's the tale of a car gone mad, the hideous story of a vehicle out for revenge. Now, I'm not saying the pimpmobile is possessed or anything, but the facts are: 1) the car was owned by my grandmother with whom I have gone in and out of favor with over the years 2) the car obviously hates me.
Adam and I are driving along Route 1A on our way to Swampscott for a party extraordinaire. This is a former coworker of Adam's who now lives in San Fran, but his folks are still out here, and they hold an annual party on July 3. Adam's friend and his girlfriend are also out, as an added bonus, so we're psyched to go. We leave Natick, MA, at 6:43 p.m. It is a one-hour drive. At 7:17 p.m., in the Callahan Tunnel, I say to Adam, "What's that noise?" It's a flap-flap-flap-flap-flap noise. It slows down when we slow down. "Hmmm, must be something in the trunk that's rustling." Drive a little farther. At 7:21 p.m., I ask, "Is that noise getting louder?" At 7:23 p.m. I pull into the Wonderland Marketplace in Revere, MA, with a flat tire flatter than... (well, insert your own derogatory remark about someone you know. I was thinking about picking on Sandra, but I will let the moment pass). No problem. Adam can fix a flat. True, he's never fixed a flat before, but it's simple! And we have a full-sized spare. Except...
This is the pimpmobile. She's not called the pimpmobile for nothing. The pimpmobile has custom tires with wheel covers. Gold wheel covers. And the wheel covers are screwed on. With a screw obviously put in with an air drill by the Toyota service folks who aligned my tires. A stripped screw obviously put in with an air drill. It ain't budging. At 7:29 p.m., the call goes in to AAA (man, have we gotten our money's worth this year).
We wait. And wait. And wait. Big burly men come by and try to help, convinced that they can overpower the screw. They can't. They slink off in defeat. A white-trash girl drives into the lot, a boy jumps out screaming, "Have a nice life, you piece of shit," and begins running with all his might. The girl hauls out of the car, yells, "Get your fucking ass back here!" and tears after him. 8:04 p.m. Triple A calls. They can't find us. They'll be there in a minute. Adam and I begin trying to flag down any pickup that looks remotely like a tow truck. Only in Revere, where they raise trucks and add lights, that's every pickup.
At 8:24 p.m. I call back. "Oh, right. They'll be there in 10 minutes."
8:35 p.m., the surliest tow truck driver comes by. Gets up to the tire, snorts at Adam, and then goes at the screw. At 8:37, he gives up. Mumbles, "Gotta go back to the shop for tools." At 8:42, he returns with a drill and by 8:45 our spare is in place. Adam uses the Huggie wipes in the road pack my friends made me (and I laughed at them! Very useful thing!), and off we got to Swampscott.
Or so we think. This being the 3rd of July, there are fireworks. (Okay, so this sentence makes no sense to me. Everywhere that I've been, fireworks have been on the 4th of July. Not around the 4th of July. What is with this place?). Our directions take us right by the beach. Which is blocked off. For fireworks. From Revere, MA, to Swampscott, MA (which by the way, is a cool name. Try saying it with me. Swampscott. Swampscott. Nice flow), is about 10 or 15 minutes. If there are no fireworks. If you don't get lost.
I'll skip the three phone calls for directions. I'll skip the waitingwaitingwaitingwaitingwaiting in traffic. I'll forget our hunger and fatigue because our day was so busy all we'd had was Dunkin Donuts and coffee.
Finally, at 10:42 p.m. we arrive at the bbq that started at 7 p.m. Bless Marc for putting more ribs on the grill for us and handing me that beer.
Moral of the story: No custom tires. No locked lug nuts. No not eating all day. And most of all, that car HATES me!
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