So I got that green card in the mail, the one that says I
need to send $xxxxx dollars to the State of Washington for the privilege of owning my
minivan. That’s annoying enough, but
this year Oscar (that’s the minivan’s name) (what?) is in need of an emissions
test to ensure that I’m not contributing to Global Warming any more than is
absolutely necessary. Considering that
today it is a.) about 58 degrees outside and b.) the middle of JUNE, I’m
feeling a bit doubtful about that particular threat.
I drove to the testing place and randomly chose a line to
get into. It was early so they were all
short, and in front of me was just one van, one of those big boxy ones, a Ford
I think, about 10 years old judging by the degree of fading of the paint job.
While the Ford got tested, I pulled Oscar up to the first
station, where a cheerful black woman took my money. I had a Koko Taylor cd playing, and the
cheerful black woman did a little dance there next to my door, so I figured
this was going to be ok.
After a few minutes, I noticed that the other lines were
moving right along, but the Ford dude in front of me was still revving his
engine and scrutinizing the screen on the wall.
Pretty soon a car that had come in after me and chosen a different line
drove away, printed inspection report in hand.
The cheerful black woman showed me a bowl of biscuits she
kept at her station. “So I can feed my
babies when they come in!”
“You give treats to dogs when they come?”
“Yes, I give my babies they treats!”
Ahead of me, Ford dude was still revving, and I thought it
might be better if she handed out cookies and coffee to irritated drivers, but
I kept that to myself.
A dour looking technician shook his head sadly at Ford dude,
and finally handed him his report. “He
flunked!” the cheerful black woman told me cheerfully. Ford dude hung around a minute or two longer,
while I mentally shoved his vehicle forward.
GO ALREADY. THE EMISSIONS REPAIR
SHOP IS RIGHT NEXT DOOR. DEAL WITH IT,
YOU DAMN GLOBE WARMER.
At last I was allowed to pull forward. The dour technician reached in and plugged a
cable into some mysterious place under my dashboard while I tried to hold my
legs out of the way and felt glad I was wearing jeans and not a miniskirt.
No, I never wear miniskirts, but I was especially glad
Approximately 15 seconds later, I was driving away, my
printed report in hand. PASS, it
said. I didn’t even have to rev the
I cranked Koko Taylor up loud, felt superior to Ford dude,
and drove to Starbucks, where I again joined a line of vehicles. Luckily, all the treats there are for people.
Edit: Yes, yes, I know, vehicle emissions don’t cause global warming. It’s all that damn hairspray.