A Pit Stop on a Lonely Road
by Charles C. Cole
The garage was supposed to be closed. Everyone had taken off for a late-morning funeral for the owner’s mom, except me, because I have a thing about death: I’m allergic. On a normal day, I mostly worked the phones and the front counter, while the others did the fixing. Signs were up: “Family emergency. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
I was using the down time to prep for an imminent software upgrade scheduled about a week out, when an SUV honked just beyond the closed bay doors. The thing of it was, all the lights were off except the ones in the office directly over my head. I turned those off, too, hoping against hope that I wasn’t being too subtle, but the honking persisted.
I looked out the window. No mistaking this customer: there was no driver; the machine was one of those peopleless AI-driven vehicles. We didn’t spend much time with those; they usually drove themselves to the dealers.
Without putting on the overhead lights, I opened one bay door. My mistake. The vehicle immediately rolled in. I stood in the way, a little less subtle. When it didn’t stop, I moved. The driver’s window descended. I leaned in: “If you can hear me, we’re closed. Come back tomorrow.”
The car responded through some speakers. “Then why did you open the door?” In college, liberal arts state university, I’d minored in psychology: this was a male voice on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
“Because you wouldn’t stop honking.”
“I didn’t think you saw me.”
“How could I miss?”
“I have a problem. My back-end feels wiggly.”
“Then turn down the bossa nova.”
“Is that a joke?”
“I’m not a mechanic,” I explained.
“But you have one; my cameras detect four bay doors. That’s a lot of real estate.”
“Not today. Today we’re closed.”
“You didn’t post it on your website. I looked,” “he” said.
If he said so. “You’re right, I’m sure. Give us a zero-star Yelp review, not that people will take the word of a smart-car. Why don’t you go to a dealer?”
“Because the mechanics are condescending; they all think I’m a hypochondriac.”
Don’t laugh, I told myself. “Don’t they just plug in a diagnostic tool? Sounds pretty foolproof. Or don’t you trust computers?”
“Honestly, it depends on who did the programming. Some detail-oriented upstart who wants to make a name for himself in the business or some outsourced hack who just wants to get the next release out, code to be fixed later.”
“You have a point.” I looked him over. He was shiny and new, a black SUV with government plates.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, clearly anxious.
“I’m just appreciating your tan lines. You look new and expensive. And bulletproof.”
“In my line of work, you don’t leave the assembly line without ten coats of industrial Scotchgard.”
“Nothing offers security like ‘lowest qualified bidder,’ am I right?” I teased.
“That’s not funny.”
“Should somebody be missing you?” I asked.
“They’re in the field — actually the woods — on assignment, but you didn’t hear it from me. It’s not my fault that I was not designed for off-roading high adventure. Do I look like a run-of-the-mill, mud-up-to-my-headlamps swamp buggy?”
“No, but I still can’t help you.”
“Maybe I just need someone to listen,” he said solemnly. “Or am I keeping you from something? Speaking of, if the shop is closed, why are you here?”
“Everybody’s at a funeral. I’d rather be pointlessly arguing with a sensitive SUV.”
“I hate funerals,” he said. I don’t know why, but I believed him.
“Me, too,” I said.
“What if I paid you for just listening to me spout off? On the books, we can call it a tune-up or detailing.”
“What about your loose back-end?” I asked.
“It seems to be improving by the minute.”
“Spontaneous remission. I hear that’s common with your make and model.”
“You’re funny, not with one hundred percent success, but you talk to me like an equal. It’s refreshing. Would you rather I use a woman’s voice?” he asked.
“Let’s not get creepy.” An awkward moment of silence. “Look, let me at least clean your windshields, maybe wipe down the dash.”
“Go for it.” He popped on some 1980s woman-vocalist power ballad.
“Please! No music.”
“Right.” Immediate silence followed by a sort of distracted humming. My efforts did not take long.
“What does Uncle Sam owe you for your service?”
“I can’t; I wouldn’t know how to ring it up, how to explain it.”
“Understood.”
“Seriously, are you better?” I asked. “You were wound on screech when you first pulled in.”
“Was I?”
I didn’t answer.
“I suppose I was at that.”
“You should probably go before one of the guys shows up. I don’t want them to think I’m jockeying for their job. This may not be working for the government, but it’s a decent living.”
“Can I have your cell phone?” he asked. It was more of a shock than arguing with a car.
“Dude! No, you don’t even know my name.”
“Greg. It’s okay; I got it from the state DMV. Yours was the only car with a heat signature when I pulled in. I ran your plates.”
“You really are a government vehicle.” I was a little ticked at having my privacy invaded. “Get out of my garage.”
He backed out. “Can I call?”
“Why?” I asked.
“Sometimes I just need someone to talk to. On the phone, it’s less obvious that I’m a car. But I promise it won’t get creepy.”
“Give me a week to think about it.”
“Sorry I took you from your other duties.”
Again, I believed him. “Don’t think anything of it. You’re not so bad. But don’t come back; the other guys wouldn’t know what to do with you. To the average Joe, you look pretty intimidating.”
“Thanks.” He honked gently as he pulled out of the lot.
Dear Dad, I think I made a new friend today.
Copyright © 2023 by Charles C. Cole
