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After
some minor readjustments "we" were on our way, sailing
down my street at 3 miles per hour. I was prepared to pilot
this unstable vessel the full mile and a half to the dealership.
Finally,
I arrived at the dealership, sweating profusely, hyperventilating
and with a kink in my neck. "We" made it.
I
breathlessly explained the problem to the repairman, who nodded
wisely, then told me he would not be able to repair the car
until the following week.
I
felt safe with the repairman. I knew he would have the answer
as to why the airbag light was on, and would tell me that my
husband's friend was full of hot air and not to worry about
driving the car back home. I knew he would say all the right
things to dispel all of my fears and I would feel silly for
driving all the way here lying on my back. So I chuckled nonchalantly
and asked him if it was safe, in the meantime, to drive the
car with the airbag light on like that.
He
looked at me with his kind, understanding mechanic eyes and
quipped, "Legally, I can't tell you."
To
the average person, that remark might have meant, "Legally,
I can't tell you." But to a person who just drove a mile
and a half with a live bomb ticking inside her steering wheel,
what I heard was, "The last time I told someone the airbag
wouldn't go off, it deployed right after they drove out of the
parking lot which scared the driver so bad he lost control,
hit a couple of gas pumps at the gas station across the street
and blew up the entire town."
At
that point, driving the car back home seemed, I don't know,
suicidal?
"Mind
if I wait for it?" I said.
(...BACK)
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