Murder and cars

I’m writing the final chapters of my latest novel and am trying to devise unusual ways to kill off some of its less desirable characters. It’s taking a toll on me; never thought killing people would become tiresome. So, I am taking a break and reflecting on one of life’s small victories.

In earlier days, other parents and I observed that, when we loaned our cars to newly minted teen age drivers masquerading as our children, the car usually came back empty of gas, the driver’s seat reconfigured, the rearview mirror misadjusted, and, most irritating, all the radio buttons playing something like “My Sharona.” Those were the days.

I take comfort in the fact that those children now have children who most likely are equally discourteous to their parents’ cars. And when my kids bitch about theirs, I am justified in smiling and suggesting what goes around comes around. Sometimes they don’t talk to me for days.

During the winter I find it necessary to bring my car to a commercial car wash because it’s too cold to do it myself. The people there do an excellent job, with one exception. The four-foot three-inch man assigned to drive the car the thirty feet from the car wash exit to the spot where it’s dried always cranks the driver’s seat to within inches of the accelerator. It may be days before I am able to return it to my sweet spot. It makes me cranky.

Last year Nancy bought a new Subaru sedan replete with more gadgets, levers, and toggle switches than I can count. Neither of us knows how they all work. We thought “blue tooth” referred to smutty dental work. The one thing I mastered this year, however, was adjusting the driver’s seat to suit each of us and setting buttons one and two accordingly. I’m button two.

Today I had to run errands and took Nancy’s car to have it washed. As expected, Shorty adjusted the driver’s seat to his liking for the thirty-foot journey from the wash. He had a kind of malignant, smirky look when he signaled for me to drive the car away. I triumphantly pushed button number two and watched the driver’s seat obediently conform itself to MY desired position. One button. One push. Victory.

I’ve been feeling good about that all afternoon. Now I must decide whether to kill someone with a cross bow.

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