After I graduated from high school, I got a job at a local service station. I mostly pumped gas, although sometimes I repaired flats, mounted tires, and changed wiper blades. It wasn't much of a job, but then I wasn't much of a mechanic. The old coot that ran the place sold me an ancient '57 Plymouth Fury for about $50 to help me get to and from work. As cars went, this one usually didn't. All its "fury" had become more like a mildly dyspeptic petulance. When it did feel the need to display anger, it generally hauled off and wheezed to a stop. Most often this occurred either in a busy intersection or on a godforsaken stretch of back road where the Second Coming might arrive before another car did.

For the most part, the job and the car were not so bad. I had a little spending cash, and when Old Shitsides ran -- yes, I actually called it that -- I could go and spend it. Elmer, the guy I worked for, was an irascible old bastard, but he wasn't too hard to cope with. Sometimes he would leave to run an errand and his only instruction was "don't fuck anything up till I get back." He did mellow out a couple times a year, and got almost maudlin in his displays of gratitude for the work I performed. Once in the late fall he did so by treating me to some home-pressed cider and donuts that his wife had made.

The cider was his secret recipe. He mixed two parts fresh-pressed cider (using the wild green apples that give deer the shits) with one part pear juice and one part leftover stuff from the previous year. It had an unusual bite to it, but didn't taste all that bad. He brought in a whole gallon of it and some donuts that might be suitable replacements for run-flat tires. Despite their bland taste and rubbery texture, they weren't too bad considering they were a week old. I didn't want to piss him off, so I ate several over the course of the day, washing them down with copious amounts of the cider.

We closed up shop at eleven that night as per usual. Elmer got into his truck and left while I farted around trying to get Old Shitsides started. I must have used every cuss word I knew twice and it still wouldn't run, so I gave up and decided to hoof it home.

At first, the walk was rather pleasant. It was only drizzling a little, and my coat was only partly soaked through from messing around under the hood of the car trying to get it to start. The wind couldn't have been blowing more that fifteen or twenty miles per hour, and what with the overcast condition of the sky, I didn't have too much of the moon glaring into my eyes to obscure my vision. The three-and-a-half mile walk home was practically a joy until some bastard nearly ran over me and soaked me in cold water that I fell into as I leapt toward the ditch to get out of his way. He stopped and apologized profusely for nearly hitting a kid old enough to know better than to walk on the edge of the road after dark in dark clothing without a light. He went on to say how bad he felt that he didn't have time to properly kick my ass for scaring the shit out of him.

Feeling ever so much better after hearing how contrite he was, I trudged on towards home. By now it was absolutely pouring, but hey, when you're already waterlogged, you can't get any wetter, right?

The rain started to turn to sleet. I might have been concerned that a wild animal or stray dog would attack, but I was fairly certain the chattering of my teeth kept any potential danger away.

About a mile from home I began to feel not-so-good in the gut. Wave after wave of serious cramping kept me from being too uncomfortable from the numbing, cold wind. Matter of fact, I started blowing some of my own wind. To the best of my recollection they were the absolute worst smelling farts I had ever smelt or dealt. I clenched my butt cheeks together to try to keep the stuff inside from joining the stuff on the outside that was there courtesy of falling in the ditch.

It's really hard to clench cheeks and walk while shivering uncontrollably. In fact, it may be impossible. I will probably never know because another wave of cramping swept over me and the inside stuff exited and, with a truly obscene farting sound, began its exodus toward my shoes.

The good news is they were already brown. The bad news is there was a hell of a lot of it, and it was rank.

When I got home, I made a couple of discoveries. One: my parents weren't home. Two: my keys were either in a ditch along the way or still in Old Shitsides.

I was cold and evil smelling and felt really, really crappy, both literally and figuratively. I tried to find the spare key, but was unable. In sheer frustration, I put my fist through the backdoor window. Damn, that felt good -- except where it cut the back of my hand open. On the table was a note from my folks saying they'd be back in the morning, and that they had moved the spare key to a nail under the porch on the opposite side from where it used to be. Lordy! With parents that fucking smart, how did I turn out to be so dumb? Will miracles never cease?

I stripped in the kitchen and walked really funny-like into the bathroom, where I showered the sticky brown undercoating from my chassis. I got dressed again in some fairly warm, dry clothes, took the beshat remains of my previous ensemble to the burn barrel, and, after liberally soaking it in gas, torched it.

I noticed on the way back to the house that it had stopped raining. That was nice.

The next day I called off work, and the following day I got a ride from my mom to the garage. The keys were in Old Shitsides (to my great relief). Elmer asked why I "left that piece of shit in front of the garage." Didn't I know that was bad for business? I told him it wouldn't start the other night when we closed up. He snatched the key from my hand, stormed around to the driver's side, jammed it in the ignition, and turned it. The car started like it was brand new.

I'm fairly sure that was when I told him that he could take that car and drive it right up his old Brown Street tunnel, take his job and shove it up there next to it, and drown himself in that toxic brew he called cider.