We just bought a car from a guy named Carlos. He has a son named Nacho and owns a taco truck. His brother Carlos was there, too. He owns a hotdog stand. And their dad Carlos Sr. was in the car. We met to take a test drive of their Toyota yesterday in the parking lot of Dick’s burgers on Broadway.

I hopped in and saw a half-eaten hot dog on top of a newspaper in the back seat. Which I actually found refreshing. I know that sounds crazy, but I’m bone dry from a weekend of haggling with used car dealers in sad white show rooms. So this, this meeting of the Carlos men and Nacho was genius. Real material.

The car must sound horrible when you read about it, so greasy, all of this imaginary carnival food caked inside. But the embarrassing part is that the car is actually a lot cleaner than our old car. I’ve promptly scheduled a full interior soaping of the Carlos car for Friday in case.

By the way, I’ve been listening to Ani DiFranco on a co-worker’s playlist, all nostalgia. I still can’t get over her line, “Some crazy f-er just carved a sculpture out of butter and propped it up in the middle of the bonanza breakfast bar.” Very fitting for tonight, when we’re picking our new car up at Carlos’ place before dinner.

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