Rip, The Car Whisperer

My car keys have a life of their own. True story. I’ve become a skilled liar because of them. Who would believe me if I said, “I’m sorry I’m an hour late for work. My car keys were hanging on Maxi’s collar. I only found them after I heard him reversing out the garage with a six pack of labels and some friends in the back.” It’s absurd, but I swear it happened.

I spent two days looking for my keys once. You know where they were: In my car, still in the ignition. I’m almost certain those keys were cursed by a witch- doctor with a penchant for natural comedy. It has to be the answer. Because every time something important is about to happen, my keys are MIA.

Like when the waves are firing. I’ll go hooting down the stairs like a wild Indian Chief and then notice my keys aren’t on the hook near the front door. So I’ll tear up my room and empty cupboards on the floor looking for them– with no luck. After I give up and resign myself to walking, I’ll find my keys dangling in my hand. And I swear they weren’t there to begin with.

So last week Maxi and I drove out to the source of my problems. I bought the car from an old war vet named Rip Petersbergson. He lives in a tin shack on small holding passed Thorn-hill. His house is less than humble, but his garage is a triple story mansion that houses thirteen cars. I had a feeling the guy was a bit too car-crazy when he handed me the keys last year.

“So listen Rip, about the car you sold me… the maroon corsa… did you ever notice something weird the keys?” I asked.
“Hmmm. Not that I can remember. What seems to be the problem?” asked Rip, adjusting his yellow Hogan-bandana.
“Jussis, you’re never going to believe me, but the keys keep playing tricks on me. It’s like the car and the keys are in cahoots… like they’re alive,” I said.
“What, like on Transformers or Herbie?” Rip asked.
“No, I wish. This thing behaves like a Tokoloshe. Seriously, it’s ruining me. I don’t know what to do about it. I’ve been late for work eight times in the last 2 weeks. I’ll get fired if something doesn’t change soon.”

I handed Rip the keys and left him to inspect the vehicle. Rip told me to go take a walk and give him some time alone with the car. “I’m a genuine car whisperer,” Rip assured me, “I was trained by the finest whisperers on earth.”
“Sheez, really? Where was that? Tibet or China?” I asked.
“Uitenhage, buddy,” said Rip, “I’ll have this key behaving itself in no time.”

Maxi and I busied ourselves on the farm next door, moo-ing at the cows and what not.
After an hour we went back and found Rip sitting on my car’s roof, doing crazy wheel spins on the grass, holding onto a bridal that was wrapped around the corsa’s bumper.
“Yeeeha! she’s fine now, got this little key to listen properly I tell you,” wailed Rip, holding on to the reigns with one hand and his bandana with the other.

At his command, the corsa stopped moving and parked outside the garage. Rip walked over to me and took the keys out his pocket.
“How did you do that— without the keys?” I asked, at a loss for words.
“Never mind, son,” said Rip, “Us whisperers know our game. Those keys won’t give you another day’s trouble.”
“Thank you! Thank you!!” I said, relieve this nightmare was finally over.
“No problems boy, that’ll be R2000. Cash only, please.”

So that’s why I’m always late. I’ll be on time from now on, Thanks to Rip, The car Whisperer.

***

If anyone’s interested, the Reef Pro starts this afternoon at around 5PM South African Time. The surf report in Hawaii says there is good swell on the way, so the contest should kick off on day 1. you can find the link on www.aspworldtour.com.