Time to throw out interloper

By Steve Estes

Strictly Drivel by Steve Estes

I stood at the railing, in full view of the world.

It deterred this guy not at all.

My new baby, the canary-yellow 1977 Corvette Holly bought me for every birthday and Christmas from now until I die, was the object of his desire.

As I stood above him, just feet away, mind you, he took up a perch on the hood of the sleek vehicle below.

He turned this way and that way, checking out the elongated hood of the car from his contended perch just in front of the hood.

I guess he needed a closer look at the workings of the vacuum-driven headlight assembly, so he slid his body further toward the front and tried to poke his head into the small slit there.

He repeated the procedure first on the driver’s side, then on the passenger side.

He must have needed more detailed information about what was under the hood, so he slid further up and put his eye to the small slit where hood meets body and spent a few minutes checking out the power plant.

He slid to the left and ducked his head under the wheel well, perhaps trying to discern what tires were on the oversized rims, or maybe checking out the braking system.

He stuck his head into the louver on the side of the front fender, crossed to the other side and repeated the procedure.

Once he had checked out everything in front of the wheels, he slid up the hood and stuck his head into the opening between hood and windshield. The only reason for that was to check out the wiper assembly.

I was rather amazed that he continued on such an intricate, detailed inspection while I stood by just a few feet away.

But he seemed completely nonplussed by my presence, caring not how I felt and he continued his dalliance with my car.

As I watched in some horror, he climbed further up the hood and checked out the fit on the t-tops above the windshield.

And not wanting to leave out anything, he spent some time checking out the view of the interior from outside the windshield.

I was beginning to get somewhat perturbed as this guy just made himself at home atop my present from my lovely wife.

But I really began to be concerned when he started to make his way across the top of the car and toward the open windows.

The car has a black interior and gets quite warm when the sun is out, as it was this day, so when I’m nearby I leave the windows down to prevent asphyxiating myself when I get in to go somewhere.

Since the car is an antique, much like its owner, the air conditioning works, but it isn’t the large, near-immediate, cooling system that you find in today’s modern vehicles. In fact, it’s usually better just to keep the windows down and allow Mother Nature to serve as the air conditioning.

Once he had committed himself to physically checking out the interior, I knew that we were about to have issues.

With one surreptitious glance over his shoulder, he slipped into the driver seat and began making himself at home inside the car.

That was too much for me.

I walked briskly off the porch and down the steps, crossed the parking lot and came up on the driver’s side of the car.

He was still unmoved by my presence.

As I glanced inside, he sat serenely in the driver’s seat, checking out the steering mechanism, the shifting mechanism, and the gauges on the dashboard.

The sun was shining bright, he was directly in the sunlight filtering through the open window.

He looked like a rock star basking in the glow of a spotlight right before breaking out into a classic song that was designed to bring the house down.

I didn’t care about the symmetry.

This guy had no right to just make himself at home in my car. He wasn’t interested in stealing anything except a look, and at that time hadn’t broken anything.

But he was being a true nuisance.

I reached through the window, grabbed the little gecko by the back, pulled him from the car and pitched him into the bush in the landscaping in front of the car.

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