Wednesday, April 23, 2008

From a waiting area. . .

. . .on a cell phone.

the brakes on the Hydra (1 of 3, ever) are louder than my tie. I'm driving out to kansas tomorrow. if it was just me, I wouldn't care. a friend is riding back though. i've met her family. I'd feel bad if I killed her. so here I am.

you won't fuck over someone you like. it's important to seem likeable on first impression when you're on a lower rung.

my brakes grind. I can't do anything about it. this guy can. his interest is in his business. mine is to pay as little as possible.

this is a conflict.

I approach the attendant and tell him, "hey, my car has been making this funny noise ever since I hit this kid a few days back. can you check it out?"

he laughs.

I'm in.

following the visual inspection, he returns with a clipboard reading 1,400. (let's put it this way: My brakes were pretty fucking bad.)

in a couple hundred bucks, I'm out of here with working brakes, and having lost that gut fear when approaching an intersection.

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