So . . . who wants you killed?

We did my brakes yesterday and, of course, test drove the skunk. And the skunk made noise but not any more or less noise than a economy car that has 146,000 miles on it.

Drove home from State Wayne Manor, stopped at the Southfield Target (which currently has better clearance than the Wixom Target) . . . hmmm, is that a clutch noise? I've never changed the clutch. Nope, gone.

This morning, am ten minutes early because of the snow. Glance at the tires because I was warned that one might be losing air. Thank my lucky stars that I have free snow tires for a Neon. Off to work.

The noise starts on Woodward. A vibration. Maybe the snow tires. Maybe we didn't rotate them after all (we were unsure if the marking meant where they took them off, or where they were supposed to go). Get onto 696. Noise worse. I stay in the right lane. Am not driving all that fast because of the traffic and the light snow. By Dequindre, it sounds like my driver's side wheel is going to fall off. Well, I can pull over . . . but it's a yearbook deadline . . . and I don't want to hang out on the side of the freeway this morning when it's 23 degrees . . . and there is no one to come and get me (well, AAA. But that's a pain in the ass.) . . .

So I keep driving. Figure I'll either make it to work and deal with it. Or not make it to work when my wheel falls off. I make it to work.

At work, I have access to approximately 500 hundred boys, who would love to look at my car rather than be in class. Have boy look at the wheel. Ask him if I threw a bearing. He doesn't think so . . .

Call my brother. It's like being at the doctor, the diagnostic questions. Finally, "did you check the lug nuts?" Nope. That could really be the problem. Okay, easy enough. I can tighten lug nuts. (Can't fix bearings though) But you have to jack up the car. "I have to jack up the car?" Like, with a real jack? Not a hydraulic one? Walk into a classroom, borrow two boys with coats. They check the tire first. It can wiggle. They check the lug nuts next. One falls off in the boy's hand. "Where did you get this done?" I didn't get it done. "If you got it done at Tuffy, or Midas, you need to go and yell." "And get your money back," the other chimes in. I didn't get it done. "So . . . who wants you killed?" "No one, I don't think . . . maybe my brother . . . " The boys jack up the car, tighten the lug nuts, tell me that you don't want them too tight. But that was the problem from before, wasn't it? The not too tight?

Second phone call to my brother (keep in mind that cell phones are not allowed in school). "Yeah, musta been when Dad told me to turn the torque down." "Better check all of them." Great. It is now after school. No boys. Well, freshmen in my room for homework help . . . but they do not have cars because they are freshmen. Therefore, they do not know how to fix cars like the others with the teenage wrecks. I do not jack up the car. Someone helps me with the lug nuts on the other wheels (all loose). There is no noise when I drive home.

So Mr. Crabbypants is trying to kill me. Just for that . . . he's getting new clothes for Christmas.