Auto Junk Show

The intersection is crowded, large, busy. Rainwater sprays from the tires of turning cars. Sand and road grit fly all over the periphery dousing everything nearby. A girl is on the shoulder of the road pointing a cell phone at her red truck's engine which is whistling extremely loudly. "This is the noise it's making, Peter!" Apparently Peter is her mechanic.

She is not a big person, quite small actually, who wears a large fleece hat which sometimes gives her an elfen appearance. Her truck, known as The Tank, is a tall Isuzu with stickers all over it: "Your Mom Rides a Snowboard," "Enjoy Lake Tahoe - lay a Local," "Drink Tahoe Red,' "gobacktothebay.com," etc. It seems that the car was overheating and she tried to unscrew the radiator cap - oops. The look of her small body propped up on her tippytoes and peering into the guts of the tall truck spewing a flume of loud steam makes the intersection seem more like a huge airport tarmac. A cat on its hind legs looking into a massive empty fishbowl.

Three days later we were sitting at a cozy brunch table in Carnelian Bay - the girl, a roommate and myself. It was raining all day and there was really nothing better to do than wake up late and have an extended meal, grandparent-style. We'd been laughing as she retold the story of her truck.

She bought it for 'the price of the studded snows' according to the previous owner: $300. The Trooper has tons of miles, half-closing doors and a Hula dancer pasted to the dashboard. It was meant to be a replacement for her Volvo which sits completely dead in the driveway.

The long and short of her story:

Sunday: Both of her cars are dead in the driveway. She borrows a friend's car who is out of town. She goes to Squaw to run a Captain Morgan rum promotion then continues the buzz to the Hot Dog movie reunion/80's gig.

Monday: The girl goes back to the Squaw lot to get the car but it's nowhere. Vanished. We all hope that someone drunk-borrowed it and we'll hear from him soon. The problem is that the car owner is returning at midnight and "she's the craziest, most mobile person I know - she's gonna kick my a**!" Next effort, go get the Tank which had been wrenched on all day by the girl's brother, Peter. It stalls in the driveway blocking the car that came to get it. We send another rig to retrieve the chicks. Meanwhile a friend was strolling a baby in the Sahara neighborhood and spotted the missing car parked on the side of the road. Of all roads to be on, da stolen car is on Dakar Street! The only clues: a parking ticket which was issued at 5am, and a Twinkie wrapper on the dashboard WITH the nasty cardboard thingy still in it. Hmmm. Car gets returned to its owner without her being any the wiser.

Tuesday: Drop a new battery in which costs 1/3 as much as the Tank itself. It fires up.

Wednesday: The girl has a job interview in South Shore. The Tank tanks at their "Y" and she unscrews the radiator cap, hence the intersection scene. "So there I am, completely s***f***ed." She hitches a ride in a fat Mexican guy's Ranchero who has "eaten McDonald's for the last 20 years." Wrappers and stale french fries, Super Size cups, McNugget sauces, there may have even been a McDLT box in there - we're talking McD's museum. After the interview she fires up the Tank and makes it as far as the S-curves in Emerald Bay. Dead again. It starts to rain. She hitches to the Naughty Dawg and meets a saint doing Jager shots who uses his AAA Plus Card to get the Tank towed to her house, next to the Volvo.

Thursday: She discovers that the Twinkie eater took her credit cards and spent a grand at Safeway.

When her story is finished, she drives us to the 7-11 in my truck. She needs a photocopy of my passport for some employment paperwork. She goes in while I fill out the application the company had sent. She jumps back in the driver's seat, "OK boys! Let's roll on home!"

We roll backwards from the parking spot slowly. She tries to turn the wheel but it's hard. Laughing, she jerks the truck into park without hitting the brakes and turns the key to start it. My buddy and I laugh.

The car starts and we continue. I say to her, "Hey girl, do you have my passport?" A look of horror rushes to her face. She jerks the car back into park and runs inside to get the passport from 7-11's copy machine.

Alex West is a freelance writer, photographer, sandcastle-sitter and Captain Morgan clown who only drinks coffee at grandparent-length meals. While laughing at the girl's story, he left his baseball hat and sunglasses at the Ole Post Office. His goal is to become a resort vagabond chronicling a Tahoe winter in this column.