Failing Smog

I sat there while my car was undergoing its bi-yearly smog test. I could tell I was in trouble.

First of all, the last time I had a smog test I barely passed.

I had a feeling this was going to turn into an opera.

The smogtician took his job very seriously. He tested and retested. I sat in a hard outdoor chair next to a forest green Cutlass, with the motor running (because the guy at the wheel wanted his air conditioning on, his radio?)—so while the smogtician revved up my wheels and the Cutlass bellowed its exhaust, I had a smog test of my own. In my lungs. I could stand it. But I hated it.

When the smogtician finished, he called me over. He was very neutral, professional. He said, “You failed.”

Me. Failed.

It’s the NO (Nitrous Oxide) that is the problem. This is unusual. He told me I need to go get it fixed and to come back. I then asked him if I should just junk the car. He gave me a form. Apparently, California will give you $1,000 if you hand over your smog failed car.

But that won’t buy me a new car.

So I decided I should just get it fixed for now. I went to the shop right next to my house (I do live behind a garage. Many people in LA do. It’s so romantic.) Pat, with her huge dog (that is always dumping on my lawn) saw me coming and immediately said, “Oh no. Did she go on your lawn again?” I said, “No. I failed my smog test. What do I do?”
She said, “You should have come to us first. We know everybody.”

So, tomorrow, my car will be fixed and passed.

In its way.

And someday soon, I will drive the beast to Alaska and leave it there.