Vehiculus is Displeased

There is a god of motor vehicles. His name is Vehiculus and I have angered him. Perhaps I provoked his wrath with my boasting about the Mechanic Olympics. Maybe he takes issue with the glory of Olympia being coupled in name with such a peasant occupation. Or maybe Oglia, The goddess of Cosmetology Schools and third wife of Vehiculus, banished him to the couch for tire tracking her new faux-marble linoleum floor. What set him off is unknown. He’s pissed and he’s taking it out on me.

Saturday, April 11: Ruckus tears down the headliner from inside the Ford Fusion exposing side airbags and defiling our most pristine car. We were in Rockwall, TX at Buffet City with Doug’s family to celebrate Grandma Jo’s eightieth birthday. Protesting to being left in the car, Ruckus grabbed hold of the edge of the roof from an open window and defiantly put all 70 dog-lbs into bringing it down. Those headliners are sold as a single piece: $742 at the dealership, $512 off-market.

Monday, April 12: VW Bug won’t start. Turn the key and you get a “click-huhr” from the starter. It just so happens that the apartment complex is repainting our section of parking lot today and all cars need to be moved out of the area. Doug had stayed home from work sick and around 8:30am he’s calling me to leave school and come help him push-start Beatrix. She still wouldn’t start with a push, but we did manage to roll into a parking spot out of the way of the painting crew.

Tuesday, April 13: Beatrix VW starts. Inexplicably.

Wednesday, April 14: I drive over a cliff. Okay, it was just a really big curb. Turning a corner in the parking lot of our apartment complex, a corner navigated no less than four times a day, there’s a “KA-BAM-bam! Flub-lub-lub-lub.” The unmistakable tune of a flat tire. The front passenger tire is scrap rubber, there’s a dent in the rim, a scrape on the rear rim, and gas leaking onto the pavement. The gas leak turned out to be fuel hiccupped from the full tank up and out the cap.

My plan is to get the tire and rim off the Z, drive it down to Pep Boys in the Bug and be back in the two-car business before I go back to school. I get tire and dog into the Bug and turn the key. Nada. The battery in the Bug is dead. At this point I call Doug to come help me. He does and the day is saved. New tire for Axel, battery charge for Beatrix.

Thursday, April 15: All is well. The Bug stays home to think about her behavior, the Z takes me to school.

Friday, April 16: Beatrix gets left at the bottom of a hill. I had some meetings in Dallas and decided to give the Bug a chance to show her penitence with a drive to Big D. We get a half mile from the apartment when the engine sputters and dies. Luckily we’re facing a hill: Turn right to go uphill and get on the highway, turn left to go downhill and circle back home. I go left, figuring I can pop the clutch on the way down and get back home. It almost worked. Popped clutch, engine started, got to bottom of the hill and the engine dies again. Now all directions are uphill. $%#&*! A nice couple driving by stopped and helped me push the car into the ditch and gave me a ride back to the apartment where I jumped into the Z and proceeded to Dallas.

Around 5:30pm Doug get’s home from work and goes to find B. She starts without hesitation and drives home. No joke.

Like I said: There is a god of motor vehicles and I have pissed him off.

What must I offer the Great Vehiculus to win favor? Apparently, one tire is not sacrifice enough. This could get serious. I imagine myself in the twisted plot of a demi-god revenge, a legend in which Vehiculus comes to Earth in human form disguised as my husband. In a desperate attempt to enrage Oglia, he makes love to me. Curious tire tracks in the bathroom are my only clue of his visit.

Nine months later...

I'm as big as a double-wide and in labor. "Whoo-whoo-heee! Whoo-hoo-hee!"

"Just one more push, Mrs. Fore. I can see the tire!" the doctor exclaims.

"Whoo-whhhooo-uhaaaaaah!"

"Vbrooom-vbrumn-na-na-na!" I'm giving birth to a motorcycle baby: Half human, half Ducati.

"Almost there, Mrs. Fore..." says the doc. "Oh no. Oh god, I see the the exhaust pipe! He's coming out breach!!"

See what I mean? Do not anger Vehiculus. It can only end in tears.