So Friday night I was driving back from Stella's in Castine. It is the best non-Bangor restaurant in Maine. All was well until CLUNK. Followed by CLUNKCLUNKCLUNKCLUNK. I pull over, put my flashers on and tell the man in the car that something is wrong. Men are supposed to know why things clunk, something about testosterone.
No ideas.
So I clunkclunkclunk back to Orono, freaked. I do not call my father. That would be the wrong thing for a 21-year-old woman who just graduated from college and is trying to prove her independence to do.
I silently freak, and drive to work Sunday. I watch kids play baseball in Glenburn for my story. When they are done, I get back into Ms. Clunker and bumble over the dirt road. Then, when my 1997 Saturn SL2 and I meet the tar it's gone. No clunking.
I am pumped. I don't have to turn my stereo up anymore -- this is good as I hate loud noises.
Then.
Clunk.
CLUNKCLUNKCLUNK.
OK, car, now you've pissed me off.
So I pull over in IGA. A woman is sitting in a car across from me. NH license plates and a pink baseball cap. She watches as I get down in my polo and bermuda shorts and start poking.
I notice something rusty moves when I touch it. I don't know much about cars, and that's an understatement, but I do know that things shouldn't move. It's supposed to be solid.
So I yank it out.
I look at the lady in the car with the flat, rusted plate in my blackened hands and shrug my shoulders. She shrugs back. I throw the plate in my car through the back window and go to buy a head of cabbage to fry later for dinner.
I come back, the engine turns over -- sans clunk.
So I'll attach a picture of how I fixed my car. My friends tell me it is a plate that houses my brakes.
No ideas.
So I clunkclunkclunk back to Orono, freaked. I do not call my father. That would be the wrong thing for a 21-year-old woman who just graduated from college and is trying to prove her independence to do.
I silently freak, and drive to work Sunday. I watch kids play baseball in Glenburn for my story. When they are done, I get back into Ms. Clunker and bumble over the dirt road. Then, when my 1997 Saturn SL2 and I meet the tar it's gone. No clunking.
I am pumped. I don't have to turn my stereo up anymore -- this is good as I hate loud noises.
Then.
Clunk.
CLUNKCLUNKCLUNK.
OK, car, now you've pissed me off.
So I pull over in IGA. A woman is sitting in a car across from me. NH license plates and a pink baseball cap. She watches as I get down in my polo and bermuda shorts and start poking.
I notice something rusty moves when I touch it. I don't know much about cars, and that's an understatement, but I do know that things shouldn't move. It's supposed to be solid.
So I yank it out.
I look at the lady in the car with the flat, rusted plate in my blackened hands and shrug my shoulders. She shrugs back. I throw the plate in my car through the back window and go to buy a head of cabbage to fry later for dinner.
I come back, the engine turns over -- sans clunk.
So I'll attach a picture of how I fixed my car. My friends tell me it is a plate that houses my brakes.
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