Remember the last time we talked, and how I ran around yapping how I do my posts in confusing situations or surrounding? Well, today is one of those. I have this nagging flu which has hung around longer than it would take a husband to leave the house while the wife’s third wheel hides under a stool. Don’t ask about medication, because, first, you will be sounding like my mother, and yes I love her to bits, but you will have to go through all the hoops she did before you get to that level.
The second reason why you should not ask about my flu is, am under medication. Kinda. Someone asked me what kinda means a few days ago, and I didn’t know what to say, so please, don’t ask that too. So, my kinda-medication is something you would find in a hungry witchcraft’s store. It has in it water, a few lemons (almost unripe), a little piece of garlic, no honey, no sugar and some smashed ginger. I don’t know why am doing this, but am told it will relieve the mucus.
This post is called the ‘little red Chevy’, because it talks about a Chevy. Well, a Chevy is a Chevy even when its human.
Alex owns a small Chevy. A small red Chevy. His friends love mocking it, and calling it ‘girly’. He loves it though, to the moon and back. The kind of love a young 22-year-old cheerleader gives a movie star with abs and arms the size of a trailer after he saves her from the jaws of an alligator.
Alex is middle-aged, still building his career, and still loving his car. He has had it for many years, say 11 and a half years. His friends have had many cars in the duration, but he sticks around his small baby. You know how men are.
“Come around and see my new beast fam..” His friends always brag any time they get themselves a new whip.
“I will be there mate, and… dude, am proud of ya.” He is not jealous of his friends’ progress.
He fires up his lil chevy and smokes the other motorist on his way. It smokes, but the mechanic told him it would stop smoking in three weeks, and that was 20th December 2015, so yes, it would not stop. The mechanic then went missing, and all the other mechanics have just been pocketing his cash.
His friends have tried selling him their rides, but our guy is a stubborn kind. The kind who wait for 29th February to be born.
He once rode his friend’s off-road for a month, as his Chevy was getting what his friends called ‘manicure’. It’s a day he had hit the back of a tow truck, and the headlights had gorged out, the hood had a bend in a few millimetres, and his insurance company had refused to pick his call. That month he had somehow enjoyed himself in the higher riding car. The music system was good, but its fuel consumption was not so admirable. On his ride to work in the big machine, he had always heard this banging noise, imaginary or otherwise, but it had bothered him. On the second day, he gave a female friend a lift on the big boy’s car.
‘Wait, where is your Chevy?’ She had asked.
‘It’s getting a manicure after a little accident I had.’ They had laughed, she had forgotten to tell him how much she was sorry.
‘Wait, Jane, do you hear a noise?’ He had asked as they took a turn to join Uhuru Highway.
‘What noise?’ She had panicked. ‘The windows are up, maybe we should…’
‘No, it’s coming from inside the car, and it’s really nagging me.’
‘I hear no banging noise, you are just being paranoid.’ She had said and done one of those things’ ladies do with their eyes.
The noise wouldn’t go, so he passed by the garage that evening to check on his little baby. The banging noise had come up again as he drove up the garage’s driveway. He made a mental note to ask the mechanic to check it out. As it turned out, there was no noise, and his Chevy was ready for collection. It was still smoking though. He loved returning his friend’s car and loved having his little Chevy back more. The noise was gone and the fuel economy was back. The motorists would know what to do with the trail of smoke he left behind.
Two years after the manicure incident, he has been into multiple garages after his friends pushed him to get ‘professional’ help about smoking. He recently got a pretty pricey recommendation, but who guaranteed results, so he dropped off the red Chevy and went back to his friend’s car. The banging noise was still there, only this time louder. He cursed as he drove out.
After driving around with the noise for a week, the mechanic finally called him.
‘Hey John, we have had an intense check on your car, and we are very sorry…’ He said it how doctors announce death to family members in a deserted hospital lobby. John tensed, shifted his legs and wiped his brow.
‘What is happening? How is my car?’ He got emotional.
‘Well, the problem is quite big, the engine is pretty knocked up, and would need to get changed. We would recommend you replace the car since we can’t understand what caused this.’ Rajesh, the mechanic replied in English heavily laden in a Punjabi accent. John had to struggle to knit the words together.
‘So you are saying…’
‘Yes, sir. It’s our recommendation.’
John hanged up buddle in his chair. He felt tired, and his bowels had suddenly filled up. They asked to be emptied, but his legs requested not to be disturbed. He sat there fighting the two battles. Finally, the legs gave in and he staggered to the washrooms to ease the knot. Nothing gave.
Back to his desk, he dialled his friend’s number, played around with the phone before hitting the call button. The friend answered on the third ring.
‘Whatsup John? You sound off!’
‘How much for the car? I mean your car which I have been driving’
‘Aaaaah… You know I love that thing baaana’
‘I know you want to sell it, so how much? The garage called and they might have to pull the plug on the little darling.’
‘Oooh man, sorry about that..’
‘Come on, I know you people hated it, stop with the acting.’ There was some childish giggling on the other end.
‘You deserve better John. And wait, what about the banging noise?’
‘Let me worry about that, am starting to think it’s my way of rejecting change..’
‘Okay, meet me up at the local, so we can talk, aye? I will be with the boys. This calls for a little celebration.’
‘Focus Jimi, this calls for mourning, nothing to celebrate…. Okay… Yea yea, see you at five.’ And he hanged up.
As he poured himself some whisky a client had given their office, he kept trying to figure how life would be without his little red Chevy.
Men and cars, right?