From Veeduber@aol.com  Sun Sep 10 14:27:20 1995
msgnum: msg15410
Date: Sun, 10 Sep 1995 15:27:19 -0400
From: Veeduber_at_aol_dot_com
Subject: At Seattle

Hair Ball Run - D+3
Deliverance

Didit.

Washington is nice. Nicer than Oregon.  Greener and friendlier, too.  If
Microsoft would answer their mail it would be just about perfect.  

I encountered fog soon after departing Vancouver (no, the other Vancouver,
the one across the river from Portland) that kept things cool.  It was the
first time in three days the engine temperature stayed near normal.  The car
was happy with its new home.

Sailors drink a lot of coffee and I’d heard Washingtonians took pride in
poducing a quality brew.  When I saw a ‘Free Coffee’ notice  tacked on a Rest
Stop sign I wheeled in, bought myself a cup of the superior stuff for a
fifty-cent ‘donation.’  It was so bad it reminded me of one of my earlier
wives.  Almost as bad as Oregon coffee.  

Near Fort Lewis I made a pit stop, walked around getting the kinks out.
Unlike Oregonians, the folks in Washington are bright enough to pump their
own gas.  Even Californians, universally feared throughout the Pacific
Northwest, are permitted to touch the nozzle.  So I pumped some.  The pumps
up here are not equipped with vapor recovery systems.  And the gas was
expensive.  Bought a map of Seattle.  Also bought a cup of coffee because it
smelled so good, which can be like picking a cook for her looks.  Lucked out.
The coffee was as good as real coffee, but without the secret Navy
ingrediants (diesel fuel and salt).  I fetched my thermos and filled it up,
added the missing trace elements, smacked my lips at perfection.

Bagels are unknown along the highways of  Washington ("You mean those donut
things?  Sorry.  Gee... you don't LOOK Jewish.")  I fell back on my second
choice: pretzels.  Crunched and sipped my way north.  Passed through Olympia
but didn’t notice.  Arrived at Eric Oster’s house in Kent about noon.  Eric
turned out to be a kid, a few years younger than the boots I was wearing but
sported a magnificent black beard in which the surf was up, a point-break
creating a neat standing curl around a reef of teeth as white and square as
sugar cubes.  

While I explained how we would have to grab the engine just so, to keep from
throwing out our backs as we lifted it over the high lip of the trunk, Eric
picked it up like an apple, stood examining it quizzically, trying to decide
where to take the first bite.  “Why don’t you put that over there?” I
suggested gently, hoping he wouldn’t throw it.  He nodded, put it over there.
He’s about my height.  His width is about my height, too.  I kept waiting for
Babe, the Blue Ox to put in an appearance.

With the engine out of the trunk there was enough room to hold a dance.  I
threw  a box of candy at Eric’s pretty blond wife, mubbled something
appropriate and lit out of there for Seattle.

Prior to delivering the car I restored the trunk to what it had been like
before loading the engine, making reference to a sketch-map I’d made to get
things back in their original places.  I did this as we churned our way
across the harbor on a car ferry, disinterested drivers dozing in their cars,
flocks of Japanese tourists exposing film at  the rate of several thousand
frames per minute.  Then came forty miles of bad road, delivery of the
vehicle and a bit of paperwork that ended with me being driven to Bainbridge
Island a few bucks richer.  So far, the trip had gone almost exactly as
planned

Here must follow an interlude in this account while I take care of personal
business.  I’ll pick up the tale when Eric drives me to Shelton, Washington
where the donor bus is located.  

  -Bob