Shklovsky’s Garage.

When I arrived at Shklovsky’s garage, I found my car in parts: The brakes, the clutch, the wheel discs, the cam shaft, the gearbox, and the exhaust all laid out on the greasy floor like excavated dinosaur bones. ‘Jesus Shklovsky!’ I said. ‘What the hell have you done to my car?’ Shklovsky held a piston to the light and stared at it with one eye closed like it was some precious artefact. Firstly,’ he said. ‘It is not your car.’ ‘Not my car!’ I said. ‘Not my car! Of course it’s my damn car. If it’s not my car then who’s car is it?’ Shklovsky smirked and shook his head, tut, tut, tutting as he placed the piston on a cluttered work bench. ‘The car belongs to itself,’ he said, looking me dead in the eye. Have you ever heard of such a thing? I thought. A car that belongs to itself! ‘Look Shklovsky,’ I said. ‘Just tell me when my car will be ready will you?’ Shklovsky wiped his greasy hands on a once white handkerchief. A breeze from outside fluttered through a naughty nude calendar. Shklovsky folded the handkerchief carefully and placed it in his pocket. ‘The car will be ready when it is ready,’ he said unemotionally like a Gestapo officer. ‘I must change the gearbox to manual because you have been on automatic for far too long.’

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