Jun 05, 2010 13:56
Two nights ago, the Ford Windstar minivan I bought new in October 1999 died.
I was driving along King St. West on my way to Parkdale to pick up (seats, not crack ho's).
Just under the railway bridge by Liberty Village, the transmission gave up the ghost.
I tried slamming it into 1st gear, then 2nd, then reverse, redlining up to 7,000 RPM.
Nothing.
I called CAA and a tow truck was dispacthed to remove me from the underpass.
The kid who showed up was full of life and laughter.
I guessed he was east african, from the Sudan, judging by his accent.
He was shocked that a white man could figure out his origins from a few sentences.
We hit it off.
He told me his life's story.
By the time he backed my van into my driveway, I had decided I liked this guy,
despite his Milli Vanilli braids.
I took out my registration and signed the vehicle's ownership over to him.
He'll fix the tranny and have a new (to him) car- free of charge.
This morning I removed the plates and left two sets of keys on the driver's seat.
He'll go back to my house and collect it all this afternoon, once his shift is done.
I think we'll be good friends going forward, Hoba and I.