I have to get my car inspected this month. The exhaust is loud. It's burning oil. I'm all but certain it's not going to pass.
As I drove to the shop, one in which the mechanics want to see us make it to half-a-million miles together, I heard a gospel music program on the radio. The singers sang, "Our God is a lonesome God". I know that's not the lyric, but that's what I heard. More than once.
A man at the laundromat asked me if he'd seen me recently at a high school basketball game. No sir, I said. You've got a local doppelgänger, he informed me. I carried my basket of freshly washed and dried clothes back to the shop.
The diagnostic machine failed my car on four counts, plus two worn front tires and a few burned out bulbs. Most of the trouble is coming from the exhaust. I'll take a day off work tomorrow when the mechanic's on duty and bring it back in to see if we can continue together as a pair. The way things have been going lately, I'm not so sure about that.
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