Arms and Legs Running Away

Returning a car rental

This author stays up late, rises early, never uses condoms, and drinks too much, all of which creates the ability to write more. From this opening sentence, it is clear I cannot write well or sensibly. I shall not draw this out — believe me, I have not once been near getting drunk in several days: one whiskey. It is true; however, I have not worn a condom in twenty years, and it is around noon as I write this, having risen late after going to bed early, around midnight.

Seated in my padded chair, I have nothing going on in my imagination except looking out on thousands of miles of water seen through the window. I have shelves, books, music in the background, a Don Mclean album, and a laptop open on my desk. I could easily spin out the entrails of a story, the beginning — or an ending — but hell, I don’t feel pushed to be creative, having been dragged over this hedge several times before.

I’m still hurting from an experience I had yesterday. My car needed maintenance, and it had to be with the dealership for three days. I didn’t think it unusual, it’s a special kind of car, one of those British jobs adapted for the American market.

I checked out a car rental in San Francisco. A nice young lady helped me out. I could have a midsize car for three days. The estimated cost around $400. That didn’t faze me. I’d heard that car rental prices had skyrocketed. I listened to the stuff about insurance and explained that I had coverage of my own. “Do you have your policy with you?” She asked. I wanted to say, who the fuck carries their insurance policy around with them? I said, “I’m sorry, I do not.” I was then informed how fortunate I was to pay $12 a day for coverage and not the $42 it would have cost me had I not had personal insurance! I drove the car off the lot, having inspected it for significant damage and a full fuel tank. I declined to pay for fuel in advance at the cheaper rate.

Having rented the car, I drove it back to Mendocino, where, once parked in the garage, I didn’t expect to have much use for it. A trip into Fort Bragg to do some shopping, pick up some plants, have lunch, that kind of thing. In the afternoon, I’ll take the dogs for a walk along the shore, return about 3pm, spend two hours in my study before our evening meal. Then, before bed, finish reading about the poet Coleridge, tell Jenny goodnight, and God bless, and dream of the days when I did keep condoms by the bed. Anyway, some of that stuff worked out, some didn’t. I merely pass the time with you until I take the rental car back to San Francisco and pick up my own car, which I’m assured is ready.

Driving into the car rental lot, I was directed to a line of cars. A guy holding a clipboard asked me to remove all my belongings and head over to the office. I joined several other people waiting to return or rent a car. I was waiting about thirty minutes to get to the ‘return’ counter. It was the same young woman who had rented me the vehicle. She didn’t appear so carefree; in fact, her face looked like a formless phantom. I gave her my rental agreement and waited while she tapped into her computer. “Did you know there is chewing gum stuck to the carpet? Mr. Hogg.”

I had to gather my thoughts momentarily. Did she mean the vehicle I returned? I never chew gum. I looked at her with a quizzical brow.

“I’m afraid we can’t clean gum out of the carpet; it will have to be replaced.”

I remained calm. “Which side of the car?” I asked.

“The rear passenger side, Mr. Hogg.”

“No-one has been in the back of the car. My wife sat in the front passenger seat yesterday. My wife does not chew gum.”

“You marked on the sheet that the inside detailing was in good condition,” she said.

“How much am I expected to pay?”

“Gum is not cleanable. A new carpet for the Nissan is $86, sir.”

At this point, there are several ways I could let loose, none of them pretty. I have a line of masked people behind me, all muttering about the length of time they’ve stood in line. Pressure, I’m sure the staff at rental companies recognize this kind of thing and gleefully take advantage.

“Okay… okay… let’s just hurry it along.”

“You have returned the car six hours early, which incurs a fee of $45.”

“Excuse me!”

“It’s there in the contract, sir. Early return fee.” The young woman turns her computer screen around to show me. “You rented the car at 4:30 pm. It is now 10:20 am.”

It’s wicked, but my first thought is that such things are the essence of mass shootings. People are driven to distraction by hidden fees. I have this strange and frightful image of everyone being gunned down over an early return charge. This young woman is mocking me. I’m going to punch out her lights and her managers, who came over to answer my questions with: “You signed the contract, sir. Everything is clearly stated.”

He’s twenty-three and needs a slap upside the head. He lives with his mother, complete with planted pots in the window, patterned curtains, and a hundred stuffed cushions. The young woman was out on Union Street last night, dragging her ass into several bars with guiltless pleasure despite the pandemic, spends twenty minutes in each bar trying to get laid, and takes it out on me because she couldn’t find a taker. Well, tough shit.

“Just give me the damn fucking bill.”

It looks like this:

Three-day hire: $400

Detailing and new carpet $137

Early return charge $45

Vehicle License fee $7:50

Customer Facility Charge $47

Motor Vehicle Lease tax $23:50

Energy Surcharge $2:50

Tire and Battery Surcharge $5

Tax 10% $67

Total $734:50

I want these people to be miserable. I want them in jail. I want the young woman to grow so fat she can’t find a jogger outfit big enough. I want the manager’s head on a spike, and his arms and legs running away.