nobody knows why i hate these cars. i see one, i mark the wheel, i walk away.
hold to pour, let go to stop. the front wheel counts, the paint sets off the alarm, and the tank does not refill itself. eight cars on the block, then the round is done.
hold the mouse (or your finger, or space) to pour. aim at the front wheel, mind the wind, and stay off the paint — the car watches you and the alarm ends the visit.
it started on a tuesday. a white electric sedan parked where the fire hydrant used to be, it made no sound at all, and something in me said that thing needs to know who lives here. i have been on schedule ever since.
the job has rules. wheels only, never the paint, never the door handles. the cars have cameras now and the alarm goes off if you aim high, so you learn the wind, you learn the angle, and you keep your tank topped up between rounds.
one page per car. they open as you mark them, because i do not write about a car i have not met.
three things i have learned doing this every night for eleven months.
the wheel is the only part of the car that touches the street, which makes it the only part that belongs to me. everything above it is theirs and i respect the border. that is the whole etiquette, i did not invent it, i just follow it precisely.
these things roll in with no engine sound and park behind you while you are working, which is rude and, frankly, a little sinister. i started keeping one ear pointed at the entrance of the lot. it has saved me twice this month.
the cameras on these cars record everything and the owners watch it on their phones in the morning. the glasses are not a style choice, they are equipment. so far nobody has recognised me at the dog park, so the equipment works.
the numbers, in my own words, because somebody always asks.
eight cars, eight wheels, zero paint. the block is registered, the tank is empty, and the sun is coming up over the charging station. same time tomorrow.
