Grease Frightening V

Many months ago, I wrote a story called "Grease Frightening". It was published here in 4 parts, with a promised 5th part to come. If you never read it,

click here now.

However, some of you who DID read it noticed that the 5th installment was never published. That would be because I never wrote it. I never wrote it because of... well, there were many reasons, chief among them was that I am lazy. I have received enough requests for the 5th installment from you, my loyal readers, that I have decided to deliver. I must warn you that this piece will not be terribly funny, nor entertaining. It serves only to bring closure to the story.

When we left our noble hero (me), he (I) was on a quest to visit my girlfriend in Jackson, Mississippi. I had come 1100 miles with just 200 to go, in my Red Rocket (a 1982 VW Rabbit Diesel, converted to run on Waste Vegetable Oil). I had misplaced the cap for the engine oil, resulting in very little oil staying in the engine. Some Alabaman truckers had helped me by stuffing a rag in the opening. I was going to make it, damn it.

My knuckles grew pale and my palms sweaty as I gripped the steering wheel tighter and tighter. My foot held the gas steady at 55 mph. Any faster and smoke would begin to rise from my hood, as I had already learned. My eyes were bloodshot - a result of driving for the past 24 hours with little time for breaks. My iPod battery had long since died, but I hadn't bothered to change the radio, so it continued to belt out static at ungodly volumes. Hot dusty air blew in my face from the A/C vent. I was so close to the end zone. I couldn't get tackled at the one-yard line.

I made it. Twenty miles outside of Jackson, my girlfriend met me at a Wendy's parking lot. She got in the Red Rocket, turning up her nose at the smell of wontons and french fries, and directed through me the final 10 miles to her abode in the suburbs. I pulled into the driveway, shifted into park, and turned off the ignition. My car heaved a massive sigh of relief. After travelling nearly the entire length of the eastern seaboard, it was tired. I was exhausted. I went straight to bed.

In the morning the story of the Red Rocket ended. It wouldn't start. I called AAA and had it towed to a nearby garage. I spent many weeks on the phone with various mechanics, and even ordered a replacement engine for $600, but eventually gave up, and told the garage that they could do with the car what they please -- I din't want to spend another dime on it. As far as I know, it's still sitting there.

And that's the story of Grease Frightening. Pretty anti-climatic, isn't it?

Afterward
Incidentally, even a AAA Gold membership only includes 4 calls per year. I had used up all of mine. I discovered this a few months later, when I got a flat tire driving home from work in my Mom's Volvo.

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV