In town the other day I stopped into the Autozone store for a roll of electrical tape, nosed around a bit and found some titanium drill bits I think might be an improvement over the simulated drill bits I have around here.
Paid my money and went out the front door into the heat. Sitting beside Little Red was a shiny 20 year old sedan with tinted windows rolled up, engine running, making the damnedest racket I’ve ever heard an automobile make. The noise could have been heard across the street and the car almost seemed to be shaking with each new sound. I stared at it a moment trying to figure out what could be wrong with it, what was happening to it.
“That car’s got a MAJOR problem,” thinks I. “I’ll bet the owner’s going to love coming back out here and finding a pile of auto parts instead of what he rode in on.”
I perused the distance between it and Little Red to consider whether I dared go back inside to warn someone, or needed to get further from it. Decided to take the chance and stepped back inside.
A line of people were at the cash register waiting to pay and the clerk was ringing someone up. I interrupted him and he looked up. “That car out there sounds like it’s about to explode!” I gestured behind me, still looking at him.
Three people backward in line a guy who looked as though he just got out of prison, muscle shirt with a lot of muscles to go with it scowled at me and took half-a-step out of line. “No. That’s my music.” Questioning, tentative look, brink-of-threatening, deciding, considering.
I did an about face and moved outside sharply. Stared and listened to the car again, trying to squeeze the concept of music into the equation. I couldn’t pull it off. Shook my head and got in Little Red feeling slightly foolish.
It’s what I get for poking my nose into someone else’s business, I reckons.