Monday, April 9th, 2001

The 914 died again today --  no big surprise -- I had been expecting it to do so -- there was a short circuit.  I went out to the car in the
morning to try to start it, but it wouldn't fire up.

I called Triple-A to get the car towed to my infamous Redneck Porsche Mechanic.  When I last had a 914 about four years ago, I was on a first-name basis with the AAA's towing people.  I'd call, and they'd say, "Oh, Mr. Seljos, with the Porsche 914. Good to hear from you again."  It's a bad sign if the AAA's towing people recognize you that easily.

Anyway, they sent out a tow-truck to take my car to the shop.  The driver arrives and steps out.  He's half as wide as he is tall. Over his goofy crewcut sits a baseball cap -- backwards.  He wears obviously torn-off sweatpants shorts, in spite of the fact that it's only 40 degrees outside.  He sports some kind of necklace with wooden beads, metal bits of garbage, and other junk.  On the radio in his truck blares the latest poor immitation of The Beasty Boyz -- some kind of choppy guitar with a white boy's idea of rap lyrics.  He has a Maryland not-quite-southern drawl.  I greet him, and he grunts.

He opens the door to my 914 to put the car in  neutral and disengage the parking brake.  He tries to get into the car, and barely manages to fit. After considerable straining and effort, he squeezes out of the car and complains, "These cars weren't made for me."

I look him dead in the eye and say, "You are absolutely right."