So, I park in the Umass garage, turn off the ignition, and wait while the CD player offers up selections from The Cure's Head On the Door album. T arrives, puts her stuff in the back seat, plops down in the passenger seat, we exchange pleasantries and cutesy "Hello" smooches and such, and then it's time to get going. I turn the key and... Cough of the engine starting, then immediately dying.
Hmmm. "That's odd," I say. "Let's try this again."
Turn the key. Nothing, not even a cough. Helpful message on the dashboard LED screen: SERVICE ENGINE.
"Well, shit," says I.
T is sitting in the passenger seat, wearing the wide eyed panic of a doe caught in the killing glare of Polyphemus. Never before has body language so clearly stated: "I am a blight upon technology."
Try as I might, the car, she did not start. We got out, walked downstairs to talk to the campus' parking police people. Their office was empty. Before making the long trek to the alterna-garage across campus, I say, "Let's try it one more time."
Cough, rev, blech, nothing but nothing. However, there was enough of a cough that, were I on my game I might be able to do something instead of sitting on my thumbs. Attempt two. Cough, rev, and before the sputter, I drag the gear shift into Drive.
The engine remains running. Okay, time to drive to the dealership (while pondering finding a rental for the interrum). Of course the Service Department is long since closed when we arrive. I stop the car, curious now. The engine starts without incident.
Quoth me: "Well, shit." (In a good way, this time.)
Drive home, with the intention of seeing how the car fares in the morning. Later in the evening, the car starts like nothing happened. This morning, the car starts like nothing happened.
All's well that ends, I guess.
Were I a believer in signs and portents, I might take this to mean the Seattle job opportunity is cursed, as it is surrounded by transportation mishaps.