Car Trouble

Car Trouble

The two men moved away from their stationary vehicles, and leaned against the fence.

'Car trouble, Steve?' Dave asked.

Steve took a battered pack of cigarettes from his pocket, shook it to release one and offered the pack to Dave. 'Yeah, it's not running right, no bloody acceleration. It's like a snail on Valium' He lit his smoke, and drew hard on it.

Dave sniffed, clearing mucus from his nasal passages and swallowed audibly as it slid down his throat. His wife Jill had been trying to get him to stop spitting. 'Disgusting habit,' she said, but the alternative was just as gross.

'It's a piece of crap,' Steve moaned, looking with disdain towards the red car manufactured sometime in the mid eighties. It shined bright and its paintwork was pristine, but it was just too dammned slow.'It just hasn't got any bite.'

'Yeah, mate, but how are you using the accelerator?' Dave spoke like an expert. He brought his hand down in a slow, gliding motion. 'You have to treat it like a lady. Softly, softly, mate, like your shagging her.'

Steve Smirked.

'Go on then, smart arse, show us how do you do it? I bet you bring your great size tens down on it like a bloody sledgehammer'

Now it was Steve's turn to bring down his hand to indicate how he applies pressure to the accelerator. Less limp wristed than his friend, but still looking like a bizarre dance. The two men leaned against the fence flapping their left arms in unison.

'Nah, nah, nah Mate. Your not stamping on a friggin` spider,' Sniff, swallow. Now the feet had come into play as he made spider crushing gestures. 'Gently like. As though you're crushing grapes and you're not allowed to bruise them.'

Steve looked puzzled as he thought about crushing grapes without bruising them. He crumpled his nose thinking about the disgusting smell of his feet when he took his trainers off.'Ugh, wouldn't fancy drinking any wine that my ploats had trampled mate.'

With a, lets humour the sad git, expression on his face he duly did his foot pressing imitation. They did it in unison. Stepping their right legs down onto the soft earth and holding onto imaginary steering wheels as they depressed the non existent
throttle.

Dave sniffed and swallowed, satisfied that his gas pedal lesson would do some good. He had the last draw on his fag and flicked it expertly, to land ten feet away.

Steve stamped his used fag butt, under foot. 'There, that's how you do it,' he said and they laughed.

'Well are we having another do then?'

The men rummaged in their pockets on the hunt for another quid

They walked back to the fairground's Dogems, arguing over which car they were going to ride this time.