friday, may 28, 2004: it was a dark and stormy night, and all hands were below deck. well, no, not really. actually...

i paid my last bill! ecstatic, and debt-free, i bought a dozen punk/hardcore discs from the late 70's and early 80's - splurging on cd's for the first time in my life. thus emboldened, i started telling people to kiss my ass. the effigies and black flag played along.

and then it happened: austin swinney and google. after leaving my first comment for austin, i headed back to work - brashly crooning devils whorehouse along with the misfits' glenn danzig.

nothing could touch me, until...

(1) i walked into the alley, and found my car gone. my heart beat faster and faster as i searched the neighborhood - to no avail. i peered through the windows of the company garage; but she wasn't hiding in there, either. oh god, someone had stolen my cindy lou! fucking swinney: if he made things happen that quickly, he was totally mobbed up...maybe his real name was faustino swinnelli?

i broke out my cell and dialed chuck e. cheese, a.k.a., chucky, a.k.a., c.k., a.k.a., chakib - the garage manager.

"chakib! my car is missing!"
"easy, paul. did you check the neighborhood, and the garage? maybe derrell did some work and..."
"yes, i've been looking for 30 minutes. the car isn't here."
"shit. ok. i'm out driving #3027. i'll be right there..."

i paced the ground in front of the darkened office. the gravel betrayed his approach.

"paul, my brother, what's up? don't be angry. there's a new driver here. maybe he had a problem. take 3027 tonight, tomorrow everything will be fine - i promise..."
"a new driver? maybe he had an accident, or got killed. i feel bad, now. ok, till tomorrow, no worries."
"tonight, paul, we'll look for that fucker."

but we found nothing in the city...

[car #3027 had 297,000 miles on her; she did not handle like a ferrari...]

the next night i walked into the alley, and found my car gone.

"c.k. it's paul. i'm calling you from 3027."
"3027 - why?"
"MY CAR IS STILL MISSING!"
"you sound pissed. what do you want to do?"
"i'm going to belmont and western to file a police report. someone is doing something in that car, and it isn't me. if my car is involved in a crime, the detectives will gank ME from my nest."
"ok dude, i'll meet you there."

the police refused to take my report. i was criminally liable for the car - but they insisted that it was a civil case. c.k. showed up. the two of us badgered them. and then they took the report. i was covered.

the next night i walked into the alley: my car was there - and so was chuck e. cheese.

"paul, dude, ummm...the new guy was the one who took your car..."
"HE WHAT!?!"
"ummm...yeah...he wants to talk to you..."
"fuck him. he is a liar and a thief. i need to be compensated financially. actions speak louder than words."
"he says that he's not going to pay..."
"he is going to pay me, or i am going to take the money from him. it's that easy. and i'd be a bitch to sign another lease with you - until he is gone, and i have my money. i am not going to roll over on my stomach for either of you."

and - shock - my demands were met: they gave me $100 for each day the car was missing, and the "new guy" was gone. curse? what curse?

(2) everything seemed right - until i checked the car. like a cow abducted by aliens - the husk of which was returned to a farmer's field - my cindy lou came back with no fluid in her! from washer wiper resevoir to motor oil pan, not a drop of liquid remained. the dark forces were still swirling...

(3) keys get tucked in your belt; that's what i was taught. the first day that i worked in the jail a sergeant grabbed my keys and stuffed them in my pants - behind my belt. the same thing happened on the second day. and then on the third day i decided that i didn't want the sergeant's hands in my pants anymore, so i put the keys there, myself.

the night after cindy lou was rehydrated, i drove a routine shift - until i felt it time to lose my own fluids. i parked my taxi, and i tucked my keys behind my belt; old habits die hard. then i walked to the 24-hour bathroom, a.k.a., the 24-hour starbuck's.

i stood in line, waiting for my turn. upon gaining entry i faced the toilet, and then: JINGLE-KLING-KER-BLOOP! my keys fell straight into the porcelin hole - the place the hookers, addicts, homeless, mentally ill, and garden variety drunks pumped their bilge. my keys were in the TOILET. no god, no. i am not here, and this is not happening: the thing that had to be retrieved, from the place that i could not stand to retrieve it. THE CURSE!

the other people in line knocked on the door. i had no time. into the water dove my truest friend in the world: mr. stabby, the screwdriver. out flipped the keys - into the sink. the horror...

(4) the night after i recovered the keys from the toilet seemed normal enough - until i parked the car at the end of my shift. it was then that i discovered she had a flat tire...

"fuck this. fuck the taxi," i thought, "i am the only person who maintains or cleans this thing. i baby her, and i am screwed - continually. someone else can change this fucking tire...it's after 5 am, anyway."

(5) at 6 am my cat greeted me at the door - not in a loving way, but, rather, demanding to be groomed. if i don't comb her before i leave for work, and immediately upon my return, her personality goes to hell.

"listen baby," i told her, "daddy has no loving left in him, tonight."

and strangely - as though possessed - she walked away. i sat at my desk with a big glass of wine, and put my head down.

a loud noise woke me: "BZZZUP!" i looked to my left and saw a brilliant orange flash illuminating the interior of the room beside me. "hey! what the fuck!" i yelled as i ran in at top speed - half expecting to see a martian firing a ray gun. what met me instead was the cat running at top speed - in the opposite direction. something was burning, and the power was out.

my cat had decided to punish me by peeing on the wall, as evidenced by the wet stain that ran - 12 inches off the floor - into the ELECTRICAL OUTLET. i did what i could with the melted plastic and steel, and went to bed.

(6) the next night i woke, and turned up the buzzcocks' something's gone wrong again.
"you are *this* close to becoming a violin," i warned the old tabby cat, as i left for work.

i walked into the alley and found the car sitting with her flat tire still unchanged. i looked at the trip meter: she had been driven 120 miles in that condition.

once upon a time i had tried not to care. i had tried to beat the other drivers at the game of filth: not cleaning the car, imagining that at some point they would be forced to do something. but as objects both enigmatic and ghastly accumulated, i was always the first to break - tossing away the half-gnawed bones, hair-filled combs, and other detrious. and so it was with the maintenence: a flat tire?
"OHARE! OHARE!"
i was only fooling myself. if i had left poo on the front seat, and the hood in flames, someone would still have taken the car out:
*BEEPBEEP* "GET IN! GET IN! OHARE! FIRE IS HIGH-PERFORMANCE MOTOR! YOU PAY ME NOW! NO CREDIT CARD!"
i changed the tire, and i hit the street.

(7) the next night i woke, and sang along with jello biafra: "kill, kill, kill, kill...kill the poor!" i walked into the alley and found my car sitting - with litter inside her. i cleaned everything, and then i hit the street. the first group of passengers - three men in their 20's - left a bottle in the back seat; it set me off. i brought the car to a screeching halt, hopped out, and threw the bottle at them - yelling, "this isn't a fucking garbage can!" they picked up the bottle, and they slunk off. pissed and fuming, i squealed away. after only two blocks had passed, a group of kids popped out of an alley and threw rocks at the taxi. almost every ride afterwards ended with scolding, or fighting. curse, curse, curse...

(8) the next night i woke, and discovered that my city of chicago chauffeur's license was missing. to protect myself, i needed to file another police report. after wasting time at the police station - for the second time in a week - i was back in business. i picked up a guy who wanted to go from addison and lawndale to cermak and leavitt - a good fare. he was anxious to meet a young woman who was waiting for him there; he was bringing the beer. he saw the stamped-steel bottle opener hanging from my key chain in the taxi, and asked to buy it. i sold it for $5. only afterwards did it occur to me that i had sold him the same key chain that had fallen in the 24-hour toilet, three days earlier. maybe the curse was lifted? gone with the key chain?

(9) the next night i made a new key chain. i ritually cleansed the taxi key, and then connected it to a black rubber tie-down strap ten inches in length. lucky or not, the new set-up had the potential to be used as a weapon - or get me into a leather bar. it was 50/50. the shift ran smoothly. and i decided to stop for coffee. the donut shop that i go to is run by guys from nepal. they have informed me that nepal is the world's only true hindu country, and, also, that nepal has the world's greatest hydroelectric potential. i was thinking about a candle-sex ceremony that one of them had described to me when i closed the door of the taxi.

i turned and looked through the windshield: my new key chain and old key were sitting on the dashboard. i was locked out. and i had only 30 minutes before the taxi was towed...

i dialed-up chuck e. cheese; he claimed not to have a spare key. i asked the guys from nepal for any sort of help; they gave me a screwdriver. i ran to a nearby "home depot" where a stock crew was working nights; they eyed me suspiciously, and then made the outrageous statement that there was no wire in their store: a home improvement center. in desperation i searched the gutters and alleys. and lo: i found a coat hanger. i slipped the screwdriver of nepal over the top of the window, pulled out the glass, and put two matchbooks in the void that i had made. once straightened, the coat hanger passed through the cavity maintained by the matchbooks - tapping the auto lock. voila!

(10) the curse was broken! at last! or so i thought, till i went to the bathroom of the donut shop. i set the new key chain on top of the hand dryer, and washed-up. then, out of habit, i kicked the hand dryer to start it. the key chain fell down - into the garbage can below, full of filth.

fucking swinney...

all material copyright paul e. germanos
contact: paulgermanos(at)msn.com
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