I’ve become one of them….one of those pansy-ass denizens of LA that has a mental meltdown when the near perfect weather changes. Monday night I remembered nothing is perfect and I was born with blonde hair.
I was tired, cold and hungry and decided to gas up during high winds while sheets of rain poured in on me while thinking better now than in a.m. rush hour. I pulled out of the 76 and made it a block before my car died in four inches of water. Now I was really pissed. I should have been home where it was dry planning my next sunny day activities.
Instead, I sat in my car and waited for roadside assistance. An hour later, with the windows fogged up, Juan pulled up behind me. I popped the hood and he listened to the engine grind. He walked up to my window and asked, “Did you just fill up at that gas station?”
“I bet you put diesel in your tank. I’ve picked up at least 40 people at this very location in my career,” he added.
OK. Terrific. So, I’m an idiot, but not the only fucking idiot in LA.
I found little comfort the next day when Shawn, the Honda Service Scheister, called me. I knew my tank and fuel line needed to be douched. But old Shawn said I also needed brakes and an oil change. When I showed up to retrieve my got-that-fresh-clean-feeling Honda, Shawn gladly swiped my credit card. “Don’t feel bad. It is a common mistake. Hey, at least you get miles on this travel visa,” he said.
After experiencing $1,063 worth of immediate financial carnage, I pulled out and drove west on Washington Boulevard into the sunset with the window down and tunes cranked. I’m OK. The car is OK. LA is back to perfect.