Cleaning Up

We went to a local Volkswagen event today, with Tara taking her newly-running bus and me following in a real car in case anything went amiss; now, I make no excuses and can give no reasons for my sister's inexplicable like (perhaps even love) of the goddamned things. Because for my part, I hate them.

I just have too many memories of my father driving them. He would never let my mother drive if they were together, of course. She could take the car alone, usually, though he did almost always have some excuse why it wasn't a good idea, and it generally took a bit of haranguing to get him to shut up; which was just another manifestation of that OCPD need for control, I think.

He always drove about ten miles an hour under the speed limit; I have vivid memories of the other cars swooshing by us on the highway. Now, granted, an old VW wouldn't go sixty if you dropped it off a cliff, as its terminal velocity is rather lower; but this was in large part him, too. He always took his own sweet time, because that way, he got to have control over the rest of us, and we all got to freak out, nag, and get frustrated. It sounds malicious, and maybe it was in part; but it could have been simple obliviousness, too. I don't know.

I still have dreams in which I am in a very bad way, say, bleeding to death, and absolutely desperately need to get to the ER; well, nightmares, I should say, because the only person who can drive me there in my dream is my father. But of course he takes the scenic route, drives well under the speed limit, and keeps up a constant chatter about the houses, buildings, cars, and the other absolutely desperately unfascinating crap he can see out the window. And no amount of pleading (or bleeding, for fuck's sake) gets him to understand or even see that this just might be a good time to, oh I don't know, shut the fuck up and get to the goddamned hospital! O my God I hate those dreams. They are so spot-on accurate.

Anyhow. This is supposed to be a nice story from today. Because we did pretty well, really.

So I almost thought I could like old Volkswagens today. They are actually proving to be somewhat useful.

Oh not in the way that a normal car is 'useful' because it runs and can get you somewhere; I mean Tara was taking back roads all the way since she didn't feel comfortable pushing the bus past forty-five mph as it was making a bit of a grindy noise in the back bearings. Also, it was a chilly morning when we set out and I for one was damned glad to have heat in the car I was driving.

See, what Tara did was load up the thing (well, okay, not properly a Thing, that's another kind of Volkswagen) with parts. You know, the stuff we've got a garage, shop, cellar, downstairs garage, garage attic, shop attic, shed, shed attic, and yard full of. You know. That stuff.

And then when we arrived at said Volkswagen event, she unloaded it onto the lawn in front of it. And then people, all lovers of old Volkswagens (and so, in my book, flat out of their skulls insane, though maybe perhaps we can all just agree to disagree), swarmed over and started rummaging through tubs and picking up bits of chrome and steering wheels and those VW medallion things that the Beastie Boys made fashionable, all excited; and then, and then, they started throwing $20 bills at her.

For several hours.

Here's a picture of all the crap, er, lovely vintage Volkswagen parts. Original high-quality German parts, some still 'new' in the boxes they came in, &c.:



Tara soon ran out of room in her rather inadequate pockets, and so actually had to start stashing cash in the glove compartment. Holy fuck, check this out:



We got kicked out eventually by a wedding party, who needed the space, though, honestly, who chooses to get married in front of a car museum, then pitches a fit when there is a car event there, especially one that has been an annual event for years and can hardly be a surprise? Groomzilla was especially charming. We were scheduled to be there until 3:30; around 2 he started talking about how he knew it was our event, too, BUT we had to get out NOW because OMG he had to start setting up chairs and holy fuck, dude, if that's how well you can handle stress and compromise and interacting schedules maybe you're better off single, you know? Or at least your bride might be.

Anyway we cleared out of there in plenty of time.

But not before we fished that cash out of the glove compartment and started stacking bills on top of each other. And stacking, and stacking. The twenties I swear just went on forever.

Would you like to guess how much it came to?

Eight-hundred and forty-seven dollars.

So, yeah, not a bad day's work, is it?

I could almost like them.