My car is my office, my filing cabinet, my spare bedroom, my art collection, my summer home, my beach cabana, my sauna, my think tank, my den, my gym locker, my golf locker, my tool chest, my media center, my breakfast nook, my easy chair, my laundry basket, my command center. It is from my car that I manage my far-flung media empire and vast fortune. I also use it now and then to run errands and get around town. It is my domain, my castle, my Fortress of Solitude, my isolation booth, chamber of secrets, my – well, you get the picture.
Yesterday, Sue borrowed it because hers was getting an oil change or a state inspection or something. Today, when I climbed in, the seat was too far forward, the rearview mirror was aimed at the trunk, the radio was on the wrong station, the cup holder was clean and my change dish had been emptied out and replaced with crisp, new dollar bills. The passenger/mobile office/soda dispenser seat was empty, all the CDs were back in their cases, and the steering wheel didn’t have its familiar, comforting stickiness. The dust from the dashboard was gone, the car smelled different, like the way it did the day I drove it off the used-car lot. She had taken it to a carwash and had told them she wanted “the works.” There’s no telling how long it will take me to get everything back to normal – weeks, months, maybe.
“I had everything just the way I like it. That car was a work of art. Taking it to a car wash is like putting the Mona Lisa in the washing machine to clean it! What have you done? What would you think if I went to your office and threw away all the fast food wrappers and pizza boxes and then vacuumed the papers off your desk top and sprayed air freshener all over everything?”
“There are no pizza boxes in my office. You could eat off the floor. And you probably would if I let you. This was an intervention. You’re a menace to yourself and others. You’re a serial slob.”
“Am not.”
“I found mail in your car from last year.”
“I was going to open it.”
“That’s wonderful. Except you were supposed to send it. Now I know why we got so few Christmas cards this year.”
“I don’t think I can get past this without years of long, difficult and expensive therapy.”
