I'm home at the house I grew up in, having just come home from work, but my car is marooned back at work with a flat. So I'm wandering around the house wondering how I'm going to get to work the next day. I stop for a minute, and realize the paradox that I somehow got home without a car in the first place. I try to remember, but can't. I say to myself, if you can't remember how you got home, you have a problem, kid! I decide to get my old 1965 Corvair from high school out of mothballs to go to work. It's down in the garage behind the house. There's a giant pickup truck in the way (as there often is IRL around our neighborhood full of motorheads), but I get the garage door open. My old red Corvair is there, covered with red bath towels. They've disintegrated over the years, but I can brush all the towel-crumbs off. What's underneath is more like a cross between the Corvair and a go-kart I had as a kid. Small, red, open cockpit, with features of both cars. I find a gas can next to it, but there's just a little slosh. I decide to push the car out into the driveway to see if it'll run. But I can't remember where the key is! The act of pushing the car ends up starting it (I had to roll-start my real Corvair for about a month when the starter broke). So I sit in the little go-kart/Corvair, and there's a big lever sticking up by my right hand, and motorcycle clutch squeeze-handle comes out from under the chassis on my left. I seem to be able to steer with the lever, but eventually figure I'd better use the wheel. The clutch lever just makes the engine scream nastily, so I tuck that back under to chassis. The car stalls often, and I discovered pulling the right-hand lever starts the car even without a key. I drive around the back yard for a while to make sure everything keeps working. Okay! All set to drive this junker to work tomorrow! Oh yeah - i was hoping it wouldn't rain, since the fucker was an open-cockpit go kart!
