How I almost lost my genitalia
I was sitting in the passenger seat of a Skoda so old that I was beginning to suspect that a brawny mechanic with a bone through his nose had raised it from the dead with a voodoo wrench. Meatloaf’s “Bat out of Hell” was kickin’ out the stereo to the beat of Pyro’s hands on the steering wheel.
His name’s not really Pyro. I changed it to protect his identity.
His brother was sleeping in the back. I’m changing his name to “Right Wing Pirate.” It’s pretty accurate; he goes to sea and fiddles with taxes.
The reason my eyes had been squeezed shut as we hurtled down the M8 on that sunny afternoon, was fear, pure and unadulterated. The cause of which being the conversation offered by Pyro.
Pyro: I just remembered… I forgot to check the front wheel.
Me: What?
Pyro: Yeah. I noticed something wrong with it. I was going to change it before we left.
Me: What? What’s going to happen?
Pyro: Ah. It’ll be fine.
Me: Oh, ok.
Pyro: Unless it bursts.
Me: WHAT?
Right Wing Pirate: Zzzz.
Meatloaf: “And I know that I’m damned if I never get out, and maybe I’m damned if I do!”
The protests of the engine were almost as loud as RWP’s snores, as larger, more impressive cars passed us with barely a whisper. I watched their safe chassis disappear round the bend ahead with longing eyes.
Me: What happens if the tyre bursts?
Pyro: Oh, we die.
I sat awe-struck for a moment; thoughts raced head to tail through my head in brilliant flashes.
I’m not ready to die quite yet!
How can he sound so cheerful?
RWP has been sleeping for an awfully long time.
Is that a packet of mints in the glove compartment?
Wait…
Me: Why is the glove compartment open?
Pyro: The latch is broken, it falls open sometimes.
Me: Oh. Isn’t that dangerous?
Pyro: Why would it be?
Me: Well, I don’t know. Maybe it’ll obstruct the airbag or something.
Pyro: Oh.
Meatloaf: “So we gotta make the most of our one night together!”
Pyro: You don’t have an airbag. Only I do.
Me: WHAT?
Pyro: Mwahaha!
RWP: Zzzzz-hnruck! What? Where are we?
Pyro: M8.
Me: In danger.
Pyro: Hey. I’m not that bad a driver.
Me: It’s the car I’m worried about.
RWP: Are those mints I see?
I swiftly handed out mints with only the briefest moment of terror as Pyro let go of the steering wheel in order to take a sweet with either hand.
Pyro: Front wheel’s feeling funny.
Me: I'm feeling sick.
RWP: Have another mint. That’s supposed to help.
Pyro: Well, we could be lucky.
Meatloaf: “I can see myself tearing up the road, faster than any other boy has ever gone!”
Pyro: We could flip.
RWP: Cool.
Me: How on earth is that lucky?
Pyro: Well…we’d still die - but it’d look cool.
We sat in silence for a while, each dealing in our own way with the impending doom. I closed and re-closed the glove compartment; RWP had brought a magazine about tractors to read while quietly sucking his mint; Pyro made little “whoosh” noises under his breath as he no doubt pictured the car and it’s unfortunate occupants catapulting into the air.
Me: Dude…
Pyro: Yeah?
Me: Why do you have string in the glove compartment?
Pyro: String’s useful.
Me: What about the lighter?
Pyro: Meh. I like fire.
Me: And the knife?
Pyro: Ooh! A light just came on! What’s that one mean?
I scrambled in the glove compartment for the battered manual that should help divulge the secrets of the Skoda’s blinking dashboard lights, trying to ignore the piles of gauze and faint aroma of chloroform.
Me: Aha!
Pyro: Well?
Me: Let’s see…page 54….uhh…it’s the drive belt.
Pyro: You sure?
Me: Yup. The engine ain’t cooling.
Pyro: You sure it isn’t the battery?
Me: Why?
Pyro: Well, the light came on a while back, so I thought I’d put pedal to the metal, you know. Get the alternator to recharge it a bit.
Me: Oh god no…
Meatloaf: “Like a bat out hell - I’ll be gone when the morning coomes!”
Me: The engine temp doesn’t look that high…
Pyro: Needle’s broken.
Me: Oh god no…
Pyro: Don’t worry too much. At least we won’t flip, and the chances of the engine bursting into flames are actually quite small.
As if to punctuate his reassurances a muffled “thump” came from beneath the dash. Pyro’s eyes lit up.
Me: Oh god no…
RWP: Do I smell smoke?
I squeezed my eyes shut and began to pray. I didn’t open them again until we rolled to a stop in a BP Petrol station. I pushed open the door and stumbled out onto the cement, fighting the urge to kiss the ground.
RWP: You all right there? You look a little pale.
Pyro: He gets carsick.
RWP: Poor guy.
Me: Yeah…
Pyro: I’m gonna use the pay phone. You guys want anything from the shop?
RWP: Ooh! More mints!
At that point the stereo exploded, cutting Meatloaf mid-rhythm and deploying the driver airbag.
Pyro: You see? I get one. You don’t.
Just as I was muttering an oath under my breath never again to travel in a car older than the road beneath it, the glove compartment fell open. The knife dropped blade first into the passenger seat and stuck an inch deep into the seat fabric my groin had just vacated.
Pyro whistled.
RWD: That was close.
Pyro: Cool.
Me: Mommy.
And we were still only halfway…
His name’s not really Pyro. I changed it to protect his identity.
His brother was sleeping in the back. I’m changing his name to “Right Wing Pirate.” It’s pretty accurate; he goes to sea and fiddles with taxes.
The reason my eyes had been squeezed shut as we hurtled down the M8 on that sunny afternoon, was fear, pure and unadulterated. The cause of which being the conversation offered by Pyro.
Pyro: I just remembered… I forgot to check the front wheel.
Me: What?
Pyro: Yeah. I noticed something wrong with it. I was going to change it before we left.
Me: What? What’s going to happen?
Pyro: Ah. It’ll be fine.
Me: Oh, ok.
Pyro: Unless it bursts.
Me: WHAT?
Right Wing Pirate: Zzzz.
Meatloaf: “And I know that I’m damned if I never get out, and maybe I’m damned if I do!”
The protests of the engine were almost as loud as RWP’s snores, as larger, more impressive cars passed us with barely a whisper. I watched their safe chassis disappear round the bend ahead with longing eyes.
Me: What happens if the tyre bursts?
Pyro: Oh, we die.
I sat awe-struck for a moment; thoughts raced head to tail through my head in brilliant flashes.
I’m not ready to die quite yet!
How can he sound so cheerful?
RWP has been sleeping for an awfully long time.
Is that a packet of mints in the glove compartment?
Wait…
Me: Why is the glove compartment open?
Pyro: The latch is broken, it falls open sometimes.
Me: Oh. Isn’t that dangerous?
Pyro: Why would it be?
Me: Well, I don’t know. Maybe it’ll obstruct the airbag or something.
Pyro: Oh.
Meatloaf: “So we gotta make the most of our one night together!”
Pyro: You don’t have an airbag. Only I do.
Me: WHAT?
Pyro: Mwahaha!
RWP: Zzzzz-hnruck! What? Where are we?
Pyro: M8.
Me: In danger.
Pyro: Hey. I’m not that bad a driver.
Me: It’s the car I’m worried about.
RWP: Are those mints I see?
I swiftly handed out mints with only the briefest moment of terror as Pyro let go of the steering wheel in order to take a sweet with either hand.
Pyro: Front wheel’s feeling funny.
Me: I'm feeling sick.
RWP: Have another mint. That’s supposed to help.
Pyro: Well, we could be lucky.
Meatloaf: “I can see myself tearing up the road, faster than any other boy has ever gone!”
Pyro: We could flip.
RWP: Cool.
Me: How on earth is that lucky?
Pyro: Well…we’d still die - but it’d look cool.
We sat in silence for a while, each dealing in our own way with the impending doom. I closed and re-closed the glove compartment; RWP had brought a magazine about tractors to read while quietly sucking his mint; Pyro made little “whoosh” noises under his breath as he no doubt pictured the car and it’s unfortunate occupants catapulting into the air.
Me: Dude…
Pyro: Yeah?
Me: Why do you have string in the glove compartment?
Pyro: String’s useful.
Me: What about the lighter?
Pyro: Meh. I like fire.
Me: And the knife?
Pyro: Ooh! A light just came on! What’s that one mean?
I scrambled in the glove compartment for the battered manual that should help divulge the secrets of the Skoda’s blinking dashboard lights, trying to ignore the piles of gauze and faint aroma of chloroform.
Me: Aha!
Pyro: Well?
Me: Let’s see…page 54….uhh…it’s the drive belt.
Pyro: You sure?
Me: Yup. The engine ain’t cooling.
Pyro: You sure it isn’t the battery?
Me: Why?
Pyro: Well, the light came on a while back, so I thought I’d put pedal to the metal, you know. Get the alternator to recharge it a bit.
Me: Oh god no…
Meatloaf: “Like a bat out hell - I’ll be gone when the morning coomes!”
Me: The engine temp doesn’t look that high…
Pyro: Needle’s broken.
Me: Oh god no…
Pyro: Don’t worry too much. At least we won’t flip, and the chances of the engine bursting into flames are actually quite small.
As if to punctuate his reassurances a muffled “thump” came from beneath the dash. Pyro’s eyes lit up.
Me: Oh god no…
RWP: Do I smell smoke?
I squeezed my eyes shut and began to pray. I didn’t open them again until we rolled to a stop in a BP Petrol station. I pushed open the door and stumbled out onto the cement, fighting the urge to kiss the ground.
RWP: You all right there? You look a little pale.
Pyro: He gets carsick.
RWP: Poor guy.
Me: Yeah…
Pyro: I’m gonna use the pay phone. You guys want anything from the shop?
RWP: Ooh! More mints!
At that point the stereo exploded, cutting Meatloaf mid-rhythm and deploying the driver airbag.
Pyro: You see? I get one. You don’t.
Just as I was muttering an oath under my breath never again to travel in a car older than the road beneath it, the glove compartment fell open. The knife dropped blade first into the passenger seat and stuck an inch deep into the seat fabric my groin had just vacated.
Pyro whistled.
RWD: That was close.
Pyro: Cool.
Me: Mommy.
And we were still only halfway…