Well, I'll try to keep up with that mood for a second anyway.
This is a poem about how I'm often intimidated by gas station
mechanics.
And it's simply that I don't do things well with my hands
and tend to yield to them on almost every occasion
no matter what they say.
And the most extreme example of this
that I could give you is that one morning I went down
to start my car, it was Volkswagen, the Volkswagen.
And it wouldn't start, I assumed it was the battery.
And just when I was in a hurry and it wouldn't
have helped to look under the hood
anyway since I wouldn't have known what was going on.
So I called my brother and he pushed me to the gas station.
And I left it with them and said if there's
anything more grave than the battery,
just call me and went off.
And about two hours later I was at work.
I got a call from hysterical gas station mechanic
saying that the battery was fine but I didn't
have any motor in the car.
Overnight somebody had stolen the motor.
And the saddest part of that, this really sad part
was that if I had looked under the hood,
it would have been the first time I could have been
able to identify the problem.
"At every gas station there are mechanics.
Around them, my cleanliness stinks.
I smell it and so do they.
I always want to tell them I used to box,
and change tires, and eat heroes.
It is my hands hanging out of my sleeves like white gloves,
it is what I've not done and do not know.
If they mention the differential,
I pay whatever price.
When they tell me what's wrong beneath my hood,
I nod and become meek.
If they were to say I could not have my car back that it was
theirs, I would say thank you, you must be right,
and then I would walk home and create an accident."