Thomas Sullivan's writing has appeared in *Word Riot, 3AM Magazine*, and *The Legendary*, among others. His memoir about teaching drivers education (titled *Life In The Slow Lane*) is available in February, 2010 from Uncial Press (www.uncialpress.com).
Let's Sing The Maliblues: Saying Goodbye to an American Automotive Icon
At Last, A Fun Day At Work
Just before I went home last night, my boss Ray informed me that a candidate would be coming by the store to do a press event. According to Ray, it was going to be one of those meet-and-greet, mingle with the regular folk type of affairs. He also told me that I was going to be the one behind the counter that greets the guy. I tried to beg off the assignment, but Ray quickly reiterated that this wasn't a request, it was an order. According to Ray, I was one of the few levelheaded people left in our shop, which had a turnover rate similar to Wal-Mart's. He didn't want anything going wrong, since the free publicity would be good for business.
So I got the guy's name before leaving work. At home I logged onto the internet and did a little research on our Very Important Visitor. The first thing I saw was a close-up of a fifty year old guy with thick black hair going salt and pepper at the temples. He was standing in front of an American flag that filled the entire background and was flashing one of those Trust Me About This Car kind of smiles. He looked casual and relaxed in his crisply-ironed dress shirt with the missing tie replaced by a flag pin on his lapel.
I was starting to feel skeptical as I delved into his profile. I learned that 1) The guy grew up in Medina, MN, a wealthy suburb of Minneapolis, 2) was socially and fiscally conservative, 3) attended the same private college prep school as our last president, and 4) took over the family business a few years ago. And what was this business? Was it something dynamic and innovative, a beachhead of the new economy? Well, not exactly. The father made a fortune mass-manufacturing those styrofoam holders that you put a Big Mac in. Yup, that's right, the same ones that modern nations are trying to ban and you only still find in third world countries and lightly-populated parts of America.
So, the official story being sold to me was that this guy was a responsible, hardworking, and highly educated job creating juggernaut. But what I saw was an inherited-wealth, golden-spoon boy who's grown bored with churning out unneeded, unrecyclable garbage made by people who probably get paid next to nothing. If, that is, they hadn't been laid off yet. Which meant that our little meet-n-greet was a way to show the public that the guy could connect with people he'd had no actual connection with in fifty-odd years of privileged living.
At 10:00 the next morning I was standing behind the counter when the guy arrived with his entourage and the press in tow. You could tell which ones were his handlers – they were dressed in suits and loaded down with pagers and Blackberries that they checked repeatedly. Within seconds of their arrival our small shop was filled with a chorus of mechanical chirping and ringing and serious men whispering into gadgets, as if to protect valuable secrets. Joining them were a dozen reporters holding cameras and videorecorders to record the action. One guy held a long pole that affixed to a boom mic.
The handlers moved off to the side of the room and conferred with Ray for a moment. Then one of them walked up to the counter and told me the game plan for the photo op. I listened silently and nodded my head in understanding.
Ten minutes later they were ready. The packed room grew quiet and the guy strolled up to the counter like a casual, everyday shopper. He put both hands on the glass, revealing tanned forearms below shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. I looked at him with a smile and pretended that every shopper I encountered here wore a spotless dress shirt with an ironed collar. The guy's eyes danced around uncomfortably and I noted a small bead of sweat on his forehead. I tried to ignore the boom mic hovering over his head as the guy looked up at the rack behind me.
"So, uh, which of these is your best seller."
I smiled, pivoted, and pointed at the rack.
"That Winchester SX3 is very popular. Great hunting rifle. Do you hunt?"
The guy's eyebrows shot up. I was going off plan, intentionally and without warning.
"Well, uh," he stammered, "I've been so busy creating jobs that, uh…"
A dead pause filled the room. The lead handler glared at me and Ray lowered his face into his hand.
"But I, uh, definitely plan to take it up soon."
The guy's forehead filled with sweat bubbles. He stood perfectly still for a moment, pondering his next move as his handlers shifted uncomfortably behind him, waiting for their man to regain control and move the topic away from himself. He leaned over and peered at the weapons inside the counter. A drop of sweat hit the glass just before he asked his next question.
"Which of these handguns do you think is the best."
I reached into the case, dragged out a Luger P08, and handed it to him. He held it up for the cameras and twisted it back and forth, pretending to admire its craftsmanship.
"Definitely that one, those Germans really know how to make guns."
I made sure to say "Germans" extra loud. I waited for the guy to retort, perhaps making a complimentary statement about the prowess of American manufacturers for the sake of the cameras, but he remained silent, fiddling with the gun.
"That," I continued, "is the best thing we sell, by far. It's great for blowing away immigrants."
A loud, collective gasp filled the air. The guy stared at me as the blood drained from his face. He started to say something, but a handler stepped up, grabbed his elbow, and whispered in his ear. The handler stared at me and I smiled back before winking. Then he turned back toward the cameramen and his coworkers and said, "Oh-kay, I think we're done here".
The handlers formed a cocoon around their charge and pushed through the crowd like a rap star's entourage leaving a club after an altercation. They waved away reporters, responding to questions with stern-faced declarations of "no comment," and marched in a tight pack toward a van parked on the sidewalk next to the four lane highway. The group lurched into the van, fired it up, and squealed away as reporters filmed their quick escape.
Ray marched up to the counter. Shaking with rage, he pounded on the counter and fired me on the spot. But I didn't really care. It had been a fun day at work, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd enjoyed being there. Plus, as I headed out the door, I realized something. The candidate had taken the gun with him as he was hustled out of the shop. I now had a dynamite story about a shoplifting politician to post online. The fun was just beginning.
Oops (March 20, 2010. Issue 15. The DirtyDirty.)
Looking back at it now, it’s pretty obvious that bringing a gun into our dungeon wasn’t such a hot idea. Without it our little club would probably still be going strong and we’d all still be employed. But I’m getting ahead of myself here. A little background is in order.
My name is Bill. I used to work in the IT department at our local community college, Central Maine at Orono. That’s where I met Jim and Ray, who taught introductory classes in English and Math respectively. I won’t bore you with the details, but basically one thing led to another and after a few months of meeting two towns over we got tired of the expense and the noise complaints from neighboring rooms and decided to build a dungeon in a spare room in my basement. Two weeks before we began construction I enrolled in a shop class at the school and started watching This Old House on PBS to provide a little cover for our secret project. I’d never had any interest in building things, but I didn’t want my wife Brenda to become suspicious, so I claimed to have experienced a sudden an unexpected new interest in woodworking. A mid-life growth spurt, so to speak.
I went down to Sears one Saturday and bought a table saw, locks, and a workhorse and then stopped by Home Depot for some two-by-fours. I went home, fired up the saw, and knocked out my first school project, a “tool cabinet” that I crafted to secretly serve as a safe home for our playthings – track balls, whips, leather restraints, a studded facemask with two handles above the ears, etc. Dave, my shop instructor, commended its construction but also inquired about the unusual number of locks and bolts that I had built into the front of my first creation. The thing resembled a safe, with three spinner-combination dials and two key-activated locks. When Dan commented that I had built it apparently to safeguard the family jewels, I shook my head and smirked at his unintended entendre. I also built a series of railings with thick chains attached that ostensibly were intended to hold various power tools, but in actuality were fashioned to shackle wrists in the event that our club fancied a slave session when the taser or the Veggie Tales dolls started to get old.
At first everything went just fine and we had a blast. Jim and Ray would come over every Tuesday night and we would toil for a sweaty, exciting two hours on our “homework projects,” unleashing our pent-up weekly lust like a group of bankers gouging the financially illiterate. When it was time to go home Jim and Ray would exhaustedly climb the stairs from the dungeon and walk through the living room past Brenda clutching an unvarnished end table or chair that I had purchased from Goodwill and removed a few legs from to suggest a workshop project in progress.
Maybe I left a price tag on a purchase that Rick or Ray carted through my living room. Maybe someone at the school overheard a sly comment between us in the break room and started connecting the dots. Maybe Brenda saw something online that piqued her suspicions. I don’t know. But one Tuesday night I came home and Brenda wasn’t around, which in itself wasn’t that unusual. We weren’t the constant-contact nightmare-couple of lore, we were fairly easy going, so I thought nothing of her absence as I went down to the dungeon, planning to continue work on the stretching rack. I walked into the dark little room, flicked on the light, and plugged in the table saw. I positioned the blade, hit the power button, and then felt a blast of energy that surged up my arm and started to fry my brain. My arm shook violently in place like a jackhammer. In my terror I somehow managed to reach over with my left hand and yank my right off the saw. Then I crumpled to the floor and blacked out.
Ray arrived early for our homework session and found me curled up on the floor. I was still mumbling to myself and slowly emerging through a fog of confusion when Ray’s observation about the overpowering stench in the small room returned me to reality. I staggered to my feet and shakily explained what had happened. Ray stared at me in disbelief. He rubbed his chin for a moment and then walked to the wall, uplugging the power saw. He grabbed a pocket tool, unraveled the screws at the end of the cord, and then laughed. He held the cord near my face, presenting me with the evidence of tampering. Brenda had reversed the wires on my saw.
Jim showed up a few minutes later with a little surprise of his own, as if I needed another. He reached into his backpack, pulled out this monstrous gun, and stood their looking down at it in admiration. Ray and I instinctively recoiled in fright but Jim told us to relax as he opened the chamber to show us it was empty. When I asked the obvious question, Jim smiled and said he’d been watching The Deer Hunter over and over during the last week and the Russian roulette scene had brought out a level of excitement he’d never experienced before. The combination of sweaty dirty guys, imprisonment, and the threat of death was just too electrifying to pass up. He wanted to incorporate the gun into our little session that night. I’d already had my electrifying moment of the day, but Ray and I agreed to help Jim out. Anything for a friend.
I went upstairs to clean up and get an aspirin to battle an emerging headache while Ray and Jim got ready. I hunted around in the kitchen and the living room, looking for a possible note from Brenda, but found nothing. When I came back downstairs I heard the usual grunts and my mood picked up. I entered the dungeon to find Jim in the mask with his arms chained to the wall and Ray behind him, yanking back on the mask handles while doing the usual. Jim nodded his head, gesturing down toward a small table I had built. The gun sat on top of it. Nearly frothing with anticipation, Jim shook his head rapidly and said, “Go ahead, make my day!” I picked up the gun and said, “It’s empty, right?” Jim yanked hard against the chains and bellowed, “Of course it is, I already showed you, c’mon!!” I grabbed the gun, pressed it to his temple, and pulled the trigger. When the hammer fell the gun issued a sharp click. Jim laughed like a madman and yelled “Yes, yes, do it again!” I reveled in the excitement, thinking that his was actually pretty damn fun.
I pulled the trigger a second time. A flash of light and a cloud of smoke raced out of the barrel. My ears started ringing from the deafening noise. I stood in stunned silence as acrid smoke filled my nostrils.
Ray stepped back from the slumped-over Jim, who was swaying gently like an animal in a butcher shop. He looked at me for a moment with wide eyes. Then he shook his head and just said, “This is not good.”
I looked at Ray's blood-splattered face, thinking that I couldn’t agree more.
* * * *
I’ve had plenty of time to rethink the events of that night. Ray and I both lost our jobs, naturally, and Ray got two years probation. I was less fortunate, landing a ten-year stint for involuntary manslaughter. My pot-bellied, poorly dressed lawyer tried to convince the jury of what was obvious – Jim somehow slipped a bullet into the gun when I was upstairs and Ray was distracted. But this is a very conservative, religious county and the nature of our club, once unleashed into the media hurricane, placed the chance of receiving any mercy or understanding somewhere between nil and zero.
I spend most of my time wondering this: Did Jim want to die or was the bullet intended only to raise the excitement of the game? I’ll never know for sure, though I do lean toward the former. You try spending ten years teaching English 101 to the Twitter generation and see if you don’t find yourself wanting to check out. RU@thebreakingpointyetFAVteach? Totally understandable. I didn’t like being duped, but then again I don’t blame Jim for anything. You just can’t know what it’s like if you haven’t been there yourself.
I know what you’re probably thinking. What about Ray? Couldn’t he have slipped the bullet into the gun? It’s possible, of course, but as far as I can remember there was no ill will between the two. And, the fallout has been pretty severe for him as well. Teaching job gone, wife gone, reputation in tatters, hoping to land a job two states over doing oil changes. For sure, it’s a weird world that’s often beyond explanation, but you have to ask yourself: Why would anyone bring that upon themselves? It’s hard to believe that scenario.
But either way, my conscience is clean. Sure it’s sad and all, what happened, but I know I did absolutely nothing wrong. I don’t have trouble sleeping at night. Some day soon the moralists with their multiple divorces and grudging alimony payments will stop pointing the finger and just let people be.
It’s not too bad in here and they have a great workshop I can use whenever I want. I’m getting by. But I really do miss my little club. It was such fun while it lasted.
Table of Contents Let's Sing The Maliblues: Saying Goodbye To An American Automotive Icon (March 26, 2009. New Moon. Issue 2)
This morning I have two lessons to teach. I arrive at the lot where we keep the drivers ed vehicles and start looking for the car I usually use, a sleek Toyota Camry. It’s gone, but this shouldn’t be a problem. We’re scheduled one vehicle per instructor, so I hunt through the lot looking for another one to use. The only option left is the white Chevy Malibu, the “grandfather of the fleet.” Staring at the Malibu, a mean-looking ramrod of a car, it occurs to me that I might not have enough chest hair to pull this off. These American car makers refuse to adapt – they’re still making overly manly cars, hoping to get them featured in an episode of Walker Texas Ranger. The dent-laden car looks worn and tired, as if years of running moonshine in Appalachia have taken their toll. In reality it’s only four years old, but I’m learning that Driver’s Ed cars age in dog years.
My key bends as it strains to lift the driver’s side lock. As I open the door, I’m hit with the odor of a Motel 6. I stand for a long moment looking down at a tattered driver’s seat, which is dirty and covered with cloth resembling dead, wrinkled skin. I think about our owner emphasizing the need for professional appearance in our last meeting. If this is his idea of professional, we may need to do an intervention.
I drop behind the wheel. The seat is rock hard, with a strange indentation that cradles my butt cheeks uncomfortably. A plastic strip along the dashboard attempts to simulate mahogany wood. The instructor brake, a cast iron bar with a round hook, looks like a medieval torture instrument.
Sitting in the driver’s seat I try to start the car, but the key won’t budge. I try pressing in before turning and look for an ignition lock, but nothing works. After trying all my other keys, I call the office to ask if there’s a trick to this beast. Maybe I need to coast downhill and pop it into gear? Michael, our office manager, gives me the cell phone number for Thomas, another instructor who happens to be in the area.
I call, interrupting Thomas in the middle of a lesson, and ask him about the Malibu.
“Oh no, you don’t want to use THAT car!” he chortles.
Thomas asks me if any other vehicles are left, as if someone would actually choose this car over another. I confirm that the Malibu is the only thing left. Thomas has a working key and says he’ll swing by the lot.
Thomas pulls up twenty minutes later in the red Toyota. A student is driving and another is sitting in the back. Watching the car slow to a stop, I wonder what the kids must think about this scene. Probably the exact same thing I’m thinking.
Thomas opens his door and uses it to pull himself up out of his seat. I like him immensely. He’s taught at a number of schools over time and, given the track record of this industry, is probably an expert on reviving lemons.
- Thomas squeezes into the Malibu and uses his key to start it up. I don’t hear any of the funny noises rumored to live under the car’s hood. When I relate this to Thomas he turns the engine off, heaves out of the car with a grunt, and fixes on me with an incredulous look.
“Well,” he says, “I added power steering fluid, but I think a belt’s bad. If it starts making a loud grinding noise you’ll need to pull over and let it cool off.”
He hands me his key and lowers his large frame back into his car.
“I’ve told them about that belt a number of times already,” he moans, leaning through the open window.
He glances away for a moment and then looks back up at me.
“Hope the belt holds and nothing else is wrong. Good luck, Tom,” he says with a laugh.
With an hour left before I need to leave, I stroll into the coffee shop at the edge of the parking lot and get lunch. Sitting at a small table I consider my next move. I have a highway lesson, not the ideal setting for a bad belt. But I’ve never been one to shy away from car noises. If you turn up the stereo and ride it out, the sound usually goes away. If the Malibu dies, I’ll just talk to my students about emergency breakdown procedures and stress the dangers of purchasing clunkers. And maybe a crap-out will cajole the owner into getting the Malibu serviced.
At 12:30 I return to the parking lot. The Malibu is gone. I stand looking at the empty space in disbelief. Did the finance company repo it? Did the owner grab it to do a drug deal? I call the office and learn that another instructor has snagged my car, nothing I can do about it. In addition, I learn that there are no more cars to use. I hang up, grind my teeth, and think about a fake emergency to foist onto my students. I wish the best of luck for whichever teacher is sitting in the Malibu, get in my trusty Volkswagen, and head home.
* * * *
The next day I’m grinding away two dead hours between lessons, reading a copy of Teen in the 7-Eleven. I’m learning how to “Rock My Prom” when a fellow instructor calls, asking to be picked up. I’m tempted to chastise him for stealing my car the other day, but the universe has already delivered a payback. It seems that the Malibu has finally died. My coworker relates the story of its demise: He’s driving home from a lesson when all the gauges suddenly drop to zero and the radio goes silent. The Malibu is having an electrical failure. Looks like Grandpa’s central nervous system is finally giving out. The car manages to limp along until the battery dies at a light on 82nd Avenue, a main throughway in East Portland lined with low-cost used car dealerships. Is the Malibu sick of its life and trying to find a final resting place? An older gentleman walking down the trash littered street stops and offers to help. He gets behind the wheel to steer the wreckage off the road. The instructor crouches behind the car and pushes, like a dung beetle rolling a turd ball. An hour later a tow truck arrives and carts the Malibu to its final resting place.
* * * *
I’m sitting inside a car with two students, preparing to head out on the road. The girl behind the wheel laughs and then fills me in a lesson she had last week, in the Malibu, which I’ve fortunately not had to use for a while. It’s like we all take turns watching Grandpa and I’ve had a break for a while. It seems that he’s had an accident in my absence. My student relates her story: She’s sitting in the driver’s seat of the Malibu, getting ready to leave. The instructor remembers that he hasn’t checked her permit and asks to see it. My student places her hand on the console between the front seats and turns to get her purse out of the back. As she twists around, the console breaks off. It literally severs from its base.
We head out to the highway and my student continues her story. During the session her instructor commented periodically about how he hates using the car. It seems that people are now openly mocking Grandpa. I feel sorry for the Malibu. For all it’s done and all it’s been through, it deserves to be euthanized. It’s probably going to take a nasty wreck and a lawsuit to get the owner to put the car down for good.
* * * *
On Saturday I pull into a parking lot in Beaverton and wait for the handoff. Another car has died, so we’re sharing vehicles these days. It’s 12:30 and the other instructor is nowhere to be seen. I tap my steering wheel and glance at my watch. I need at least fifteen minutes to get to my 12:45 lesson. I don’t need to be late meeting Mrs. Egglestrom. No more thrashings from parents for things that aren’t my fault. At 12:35 the Malibu bolts into the lot.
I jump in and fire up the car. It turns over with a sickening thud. The engine burps and rumbles, the front end of the car shaking under the strain. Waiting for the car to stabilize, I watch the tachometer needle bounce between 0 and 1. C’mon baby, I only need you to last for the next hour. I whip out of the lot and blaze to my lesson with the Egglestroms, glancing occasionally at the clock on the dash. The front of the car squeals its disapproval as I race toward the school using a series of California stops.
I arrive at exactly 12:45. There’s only one car in the lot, a high-end BMW. Approaching the vehicle I see a woman wearing more makeup than the Joker sitting stone-faced behind the wheel. When I introduce myself to Mrs. Egglestrom, she greets me by asking when we’ll be done.
When your kid crashes the car.
“We’ll finish here at 1:45,” I tell her.
She tells us she’ll go shopping and be back then. I picture her at Kitchen Kaboodle agonizing over the choice between an apple corer and a strawberry stem remover.
Matt correctly starts his test by walking around the car, searching for safety issues.
“So how’s it look?” I ask.
“Well,” Matt says, pacing around the front bumper, “this tire doesn’t look so safe.”
I glance down and see faint grooves running through a smooth rubber surface. Jesus, that’s embarrassing. A company teaching driving shouldn’t feel okay with the safety risks posed by a car running on something this worn. Ethics aside, buying new tires is also a lot cheaper than hiring lawyers after a crash. As we walk behind the Malibu, I notice a new black scrape mark and a gouge on the bumper. Sauntering to my door I spot a shallow indentation on the bottom of the back panel. It looks just like the dent an angry instructor’s foot would make. The Malibu is starting to resemble the car your aging uncle with a parole violation would drive.
We get into the vehicle and prepare to leave. Matt turns the key and the Malibu thumps to life, belching out an ugly grinding noise from under the hood. Matt’s body flexes in alarm and he glances over at me fearfully.
“Whoa,” he says, “are we gonna be all right?”
I study the tachometer needle, which is dancing wildly at the lower level numbers.
“Sure,” I reply confidently, “this thing just needs a minute to warm up.” I make sure the car is in park before adding, “Just give it a little gas.”
Matt taps the accelerator gently and we watch the needle. After a minute of nursing we manage to get our patient stabilized. The noise from the hood lessens, shifting from an angry growl to the moan of a dying animal.
We proceed on to the Mock Exam. Matt changes lanes cleanly, crosses two sets of railroad tracks safely, and parks along a curb with impressive precision. At one turn he forgets to signal. It’s his only flaw as we head into the home stretch of the test.
We roll into to a residential area to finish the exam. Sitting at the first stop sign the car starts shuddering, preparing to die. Matt glances over.
“Uh oh, what should I do?” he asks, breaking me out of a prayer trance.
“Just give it some gas,” I urge.
Matt slips the shifter into neutral and guns the gas quickly, revving the engine. He manages to resuscitate the wounded animal. The car shakes a few times and stabilizes, but then starts to moan louder. It wants to go home.
I decide to finish early and re-route us back towards the school. Matt knows what he’s doing, so there’s no point risking a breakdown, which would only extend the time before his mom becomes history. At a four-way intersection he cruises through a stop sign, looking straight ahead, no doubt pondering what mom will do to him with the apple corer if he fails. I take a fleeting look into the two bisecting roads, which prove to be empty. I don’t brake or say anything. We just keep going and return to the school as if nothing has happened.
* * * *
A week later I pull into the car lot and start hunting down the Toyota. It’s gone. At the far edge of the lot I spot the Malibu, back from yet another trip to the shop. Sitting slumped and alone in an empty corner of the lot, it doesn’t look happy to be back. I stare at the beast and think Jesus, they’ve revived it, not again. This car is Beaverton’s answer to Terry Schiavo. Like dueling in-laws, the instructors want to let it die while the company fights to keep it alive. Yet again, rumors of the Malibu’s demise prove to be false.
It might end up killing you, but try as you like, but you just can’t kill a Malibu.
I enter the Malibu and find a note on the front seat. The message alerts me that the power steering fluid is leaking and there’s a can of fluid in the trunk if needed. Jesus. This problem surfaced about two months ago and is yet to be fixed. I’m instructed to listen for a noise¾if it gets worse after driving for a while, stop and add fluid. Heading to the lesson I hear a slight whirring from under the hood whenever I turn the wheel. The sound subsides as I enter the parking lot, so I think I’m okay.
When my student enters the Malibu, I inform her that she might hear something strange when turning the wheel. Leaving the lot the car hums as we swing onto the road. Ten minutes into the lesson the noise intensifies. Shortly afterwards, the hood begins unleashing a roar whenever my student changes lanes. With each turn of the wheel it sounds like a large log is being forced through a wood chipper. I claim concern for our safety and we retreat, herding our jalopy back to the recreation center. Maybe if my student complains to her mom, the parent can shame the office into doing something about it.
As we limp into the busy parking lot a crowd of parents and kids look over at the Malibu, which is screaming. I look away from the gawkers and instruct the student to park behind the recreation center. I end the lesson early, yank the hood open, and jam the bottle of fluid into the engine. The car sucks down the liquid like a famished child breastfeeding. What I should do is cruise over to the 7-Eleven, grab a handful of sugar packets, and pour them into the gas tank. If the fluid doesn’t work I’ve got four more hours of wood chipping ahead of me.
I do a number of lessons throughout the day. The grinding noise comes and goes, though it’s less harsh now than before I added fluid. I usually work four or five hours per day, which is about right, but I’ve started to get eight-lesson days on occasion. Today is one of those days. It’s far too long to be in a car and remain focused on the road the entire time. When I took my lunch today I was much too tired to read or do paperwork. Desperate to do something, I hung out in a 7-Eleven flipping through Guns and Ammo, looking at deranged eyes and cheesy mustaches.
By the eighth lesson I feel like someone is holding an invisible hairdryer to each of my eyeballs. My skin feels slimy and my hair is poofed up like a game show host’s from running my hands through it to stay awake.
I’m in the Malibu with two girls. Normally, I’m very professional with students (seriously), but the fatigue/Malibu combo is sanding this quality down. Slumped behind the wheel in the driver’s seat, I start demonstrating how to use the controls and gauges. As I move the seat forward with the power button, I slowly nod my head and say, “Nice feature, huh?” Midway through my demonstration I look with heavy eyes at the girl next to me.
“Do I sound like a used car salesman?” I ask.
“Kind of,” she laughs.
Then I look toward the student in the back seat.
“I could make you two a sweet offer on the Malibu,” I say.
I turn the key to start the car. The wood chipper kicks in. Both girls laugh at the sound as the car shakes to life, screaming for mercy.