Smogged

Smogged

We got our notice from the DMV, (Division of Motor Vehicles to those outside the USA), that our minivan had to be smogged this year before we could get our new tags. So, as I usually do, I waited till the last minute before we got fined, woke up on a Saturday morning, and drove to the Smog Check place that we use.

This Smog Check business is a ratty little building made of corrugated metal that looks like it would be at home in any third world country. It’s been there for years. The reason I always go to it is, no matter how bad or old my car is, it always passes. I’ve never had a car fail smog check at this business and I’ve had plenty of cars over the last twenty years in Riverside.

So, I got up, threw on some clothes, got a coffee at Starbucks and pulled into it’s parking lot just before 8:30 AM. I got comfortable with my coffee and an Elvis CD and waited for it to open in a few minutes.

Smack in the middle of “A Big Hunk O’ Love” a Toyota Land Cruiser zipped up beside, not behind, me in the parking lot. I looked at this guy thinking, “What the hell? There are only two cars in line, me and him, and he’s trying to butt in front of me?”

Then I noticed that he was oblivious to my presence because his thumbs were tapping away, texting, on a Blackberry that was resting on his steering wheel. I go back to my coffee and Elvis, and waited. And waited, and waited. 8:30 turned to 8:45, no worker showed up. At about 8:55 we both got out of our cars, he was still texting, and stood around.

“Well”, he said, “I guess around here 8:30 really means 9. Where I come from 8:30 means 8:15.”

I thought to myself, “This guy runs a business and all his employees hate his guts.”

He asked, “What kind of business is this anyway?”

I looked at him, then at the sign and said, “It’s a smog shop.”

He continued to rant, “I’m going to complain!”

“I wouldn’t do that,” was my reply. “The guy that works here is probably out of prison or a gang banger.”

Just then we both heard a low, subwoofing, “Thooom, tha thoom…thoom, tha thoom… and into the parking lot rolled a beatup, bondo buggy. It was low to the ground and the driver was sunk into the front seat with one arm on the wheel and the other hanging out of the window holding a cigarette. He parked, got out of the car and walked to the business door with a set of keys. He wore a torn sweat shirt, shorts and a baseball cap turned to the side. From his ankles to his neck he was covered with religious tatoos.

I leaned closer to texter, “My vote’s prison.”

Then I asked, “Are you gonna complain?”

He looked at me frustrated, walked to his car and drove off. The guy running the place watched him go and had this, “I don’t give a shit”, look on his face.

I got my car smogged and talked with him for about fifteen minutes. He was actually a really nice guy.

This entry was posted on Saturday, January 16th, 2010 at 9:48 pm and is filed under Life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.