Earlier this week, I had to fly out of town for work. I did my usual early morning drive to Burbank’s airport, but this time, my car smelled like exhaust, on the inside. I chalked it up to especially heavy traffic on the 5 and kept on my way.
Upon getting to the airport, I saw one of those large FedEx planes taking off, and for just a moment, I had the feeling I was watching the opening scene in the first “Final Destination” movie. Nothing happened to the plane, but it made me wonder what was in store for me on that day.
I took my plane. I took my meetings. I got back on my plane and I came back to Burbank in the afternoon.
When I arrived at the parking valet he asked for my car. I told him the make and model and a look crossed his face. “Come with me,” he said. I was quickly hustled into a shuttle van and driven to the middle of the parking lot. I was taken to my car and told, “When you left it it was leaking gas.”
“So, I shouldn’t drive it, right?” I said. They shrugged.
I called AAA and they told me if it was leaking gas, they couldn’t tow it until it had been cleared by the fire department. I called the fire department. They came and said it wasn’t leaking gas. The parking attendant handed me my keys and said you can take it now. I noted, “If you don’t want to drive it from the parking lot to the valet area, I’m not driving it home.”
I called AAA and they wanted to know if it had been cleared. I told them, it didn’t need to be because the fire department said it wasn’t leaking gas. They finally sent someone.
When the tow truck arrived, the driver crawled under my car. “This is leaking, ma’am.” I asked whether he’d be willing to tow it. He asked if it was a stick shift. “If it is, we can just push it onto the truck.”
We did. The car’s now in the shop. Apparently, driving around on the streets of L.A., I somehow bent my injector rail and that caused problems.