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You don't suppose

Suppose you visit your parents.

Suppose you visit your parents, and your parents have two cars. Suppose one of your parents' two cars is nicer than yours, and they drive it all the time. Suppose the other of your parents' two cars is also nicer than yours, and they barely drive it at all.

Suppose you know you're going to visit your parents again in three days. Suppose you know you're going to be driving home and then to and in and around Boston and then back again during those three interim days. Suppose you know your parents won't be needing their other car for those three days.

Suppose your parents have a car that's nicer than yours, that's just crying out for some good highway driving, and that they're not even going to look at for three days. Suppose it's even Fast Pass equipped, and suppose you happen to know I-90 is a toll road. (Suppose your parents don't read this, or, if they do, are in a very good mood, and know you love them very much, and remember that time you distracted the grizzly bear by playing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" on the kazoo while they dashed for the car.)

So suppose you're driving your parents snazzy old jalopy that's much nicer than your new jalopy down the road from your house and you're thinking how it hasn't been driven much lately — and you hear a noise. Actually, suppose you hear a bunch of noises, but one of them's coming from somewhere from which no noise should properly come. Suppose that place seems like it's somewhere under the windshield.

Suppose you try and figure out what the hell the noise is. Suppose you check that there's no loose change rattling in the ashtray, no loose pens in the glovebox, nothing loose you can find anywhere that might somehow echo noisesomely from within the dash. Suppose you press down on the dash in various tactically plotted locales. Suppose the noise doesn't stop.

Suppose you remember how your brother found a mouse in the engine compartment of the car he left overwinter once. (Suppose, alas, he found it too late, for the mouse.)

Suppose you know mice live in your parents garage. (Suppose they like to eat the birdseed.) Suppose you've heard them clawing and scratching in the walls and the ceiling in the house. Suppose you've heard them clawing and scratching in the walls and the ceiling in the house many, many, many times. Suppose you've got a pretty good idea just what that sounds like.

Suppose you pull over, open the hood, take a listen. Suppose you shut off the engine and listen again. (Suppose you look like a jackass holding your ear over your engine at the side of the road.) Suppose you hear nothing. Suppose you see nothing. Suppose you give up.

Suppose you get back in the car, start the engine, and drive off — and never hear the damn noise again.

Now what the hell are you supposed to think?

December 30, 2002 12:58 AM

Comments (and TrackBacks)

Suppose I didn't read this post.

Posted by Norm Jenson on December 31, 2002 12:49 AM

Heh. (Then I don't suppose you can tell me if my parents' car is haunted by my brother's dead mouse....)

Posted by M on December 31, 2002 10:14 AM

Get out of the house, Matt! RUN!

Posted by senn on January 2, 2003 9:26 PM

Based on this tale, and dovetailing it with my own experience, I recommend you check the chrome at the back of the car, where identification the manufacturer and model might be expected to appear. Don't be surprised to see "A MicroSoft automobile; powered by Windows".

Posted by Mike DiCola on January 8, 2003 9:41 AM


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