The auto service station was sketchy. Offering state inspections seemed like a ploy to lure you in, like getting a free set of steak knives for ordering a shoddy kitchen appliance that would juice “Anything!”

Of course, it wouldn’t have been a proper state inspection if they didn’t find something wrong. This time it was the tires, the two rear tires. Both were worn out, or so they told me; if I knew any less about cars I wouldn’t even be able to find the rear tires. And, like all good repair shops, the parts and the tires had to be picked up from somewhere else. This further proves my theory that car parts exist in a strange parallel dimension that can be accessed only by sending order forms.

So I spent a good chunk of the afternoon waiting for one of the station employees to pick up the tires and parts from a place across “Town.” (There seemed to be a linguistic misunderstanding where “Town” actually meant “State”).

It wasn’t too long (though it seemed longer) before the tires arrived and work began.

Suddenly there was shouting coming from the mechanics. I looked over to see the van rolling out of the garage. “Good,” I first thought, “They’re finished.”

Then I saw one of the mechanics run up alongside the van. That’s when I realized no one was driving it. My van was rolling out of the garage, towards the street, on its own. A second mechanic followed behind the van, trying not to drop the tail light, attached by a few wires, which he held in his hands.

With speed and skill, the first mechanic whipped open the door and hit the brakes. There was a collective sigh of relief and then, from everyone but me, a few laughs.

I only would have laughed if it got wrecked.