My car no longer smells like a fiery inferno thanks to a mechanic named Kenny. I knew I would like Kenny as soon as I saw him wearing one of those powder blue jumpsuits typically worn in garage environments (cute!) with his name stitched in red letters on a white patch (which wasnât exactly white anymore, due to the aforementioned garage surroundings). The patch did not say âKennethâ or âKen.â It said âKenny.â And for some reason, thereâs something slightly odd but primarily endearing to me about a grown-ass man going by Kenny.
Yes, Kenny, I did unfortunately give you a lot of money to fix the car. Itâs not like you were doing me a favor. I owe you nothing. Regardless, I feel the need to say thank you because I am no longer breathing in toxic fumes or leaving a trail of white exhaust smoke in my wake, causing everyone behind me in the McDonaldâs drive-thru to hate my guts. (I donât need to be making enemies, Kenny, especially at my favorite restaurant.)
(Side note- if you have an enemy named Kenneth, Ken, or Kenny, you should definitely be referring to them as your Kenemy. If youâre not, well thatâs just a tragic missed opportunity in my opinion.)
I will say that you did have me worried for a second on the night I picked up the car, Kenny. When I pulled out from the garage parking lot, I couldnât see anything and worried I no longer had working lights. Then I realized my lights were probably fine, but that you had turned them off. I started to panic. I didnât remember exactly how to turn them on because they are automatic, meaning I always leave them in the on position. I felt like I was driving through outer space for a few seconds and then I pulled into the nearest parking lot (a brightly lit Dollar General) to finagle with the controls. I now know that you did not break my lights, but that I am not so great with cars (a fact that you and I probably already knew, based on how my eyes glazed over as you explained the work you did to the vehicle). Iâm doing my best here, Kenny (and rest of the world). Doing my best.
