The other day, I was in the backroom at the Franchise, with my feet propped up, re-reading The Hunt for Red October.

The day started out with a good amount of deliveries, and then slowed down. The door chimed a few times, but Zebulon didn’t seem to need me — in other words, there were no thum-splaaaaat! sounds indicating pizzas committing suicide — and, frankly, I was losing myself in Clancy’s best novel (most of them, you must admit, read like technical manuals with characters).

As the afternoon came along and the night staff started showing up, I gathered my money together and made my way to the front to be counted out.

“A customer was asking about your car,” Zebulon said.

Erm. Huh? I mean, I was parked illegally around the curb. Was the guy complaining?

“No, he asked if I owned the Celica, I said no, it was yours, then he said it was a pretty car.”

Erm. Pretty? My Celica?

I mean, don’t get me wrong, my Celica has some nice pretty lines, but I’m really awful about washing the damn thing. Or about keeping it clean. Really, I was much more suited to owning a Wrangler — who cares about a dirty Jeep? They’re supposed to be dirty, after all. But a sports car? I should be spending half of my Saturday every week washing and waxing and buffing and whatever else it is to keep a sports car beautiful and shiny and gleaming and fast looking.

Yeah, so anyway, I said something along the lines of, “What? Was he fucking kidding?”

Because, really, if I took all the plastic bottles in my car to a recycling plant, I’d probably get enough money to buy, like, I dunno, a nice little rowhouse down in Remington or something.

“No, he seemed really sincere.”

I don’t know how much faith I place in Zebulon’s appraisal of someone’s sarcasm meter. Really, I’m surprised “warsh me” isn’t scrawled in finger across the back of the car. Meanwhile, my hood is coated in dirt from the mess of leaves I found on it when I came out this morning (and how about this weather? FALL is in the AIR, baaaaby!)

In any case, I think I’m starting to come out of my “Holy Crap, Less Than A Year Until I’m Thirty!” funk. Tomorrow: an actual grocery store run, some laundry, writing some cover letters, and, yes, maybe a stop at the car-wash on York Road in Cockeysville with a pocket full of quarters. I wants me a clean car.

(I mean, okay, there’s only so clean I can get the damn thing without getting it detailed, but the first thing I do when I’m done with pizza, is taking the thing down to Diamond Detail. Beautify it up! And get the driver’s seat patched.)