“My children were conceived in this car.” 

I said aloud to myself as I wiped the last white thread of wax into the pitch black exterior of my Jetta.  She was beautiful.  The car, she, had been with me for more years than my wife.  My Jetta had driven 1200 miles on Mexican highways, and she also struggled through 40 below winters in Wisconsin.  Her trunk had rust, as did the driver side wheel well.  The shocks were shot, the rear passenger side window was glued shut, and the glove compartment hadn’t opened in over a year.  Oh, the list of flaws was more than I could publish… but I did.  I published the list in the local for sale website along with an attractive price.  I had to sell her. 

Despite all her flaws, that totaled over $5000 from the dealer to repair, my Jetta couldn’t keep up with my growing family.  I had more children than seatbelts, and my wife wouldn’t ride in my car because “that kraut can is not safe.”

So that was that.  It took two days before I got an email from an interested party who insisted they see the Jetta as soon as possible.  I arranged the meeting, and three hours before the buyers were arriving, I gave my Jetta one last bath.  Then the phone rang.

The caller ID reported a local number, but not one that I knew.  Thinking it might be the Jetta buyers, I answered.

“Helllllo…”

“Mr. Larson, have you heard from Miss Spelman today?”

The woman on the other end of the phone sounded a bit frantic, and without a second of hesitation, I moved on with the conversation.  I was not Mr. Larson, and this lady obviously dialed the wrong number.

“No, I have not spoken with her.”

“Ugh.  Well, I went over there earlier because Miss Spelman called again and said she couldn’t find her teeth.  So I drove all the way over to her house and I just knew they’d be under her chair again, and of course, they were.  Anyway, somehow she got more cats but most of them seem to stay on the porch.  It stinks to high noon over there, and Miss Spelman hadn’t bathed in days.  And then I noticed a large black spot on her robe and I asked her how it got there and she told me she didn’t know.  Well I went in the kitchen and sure enough, there was charred pieces of her robe on the stove.  She must have been making tea and leaned right into the burner.  She’s gonna start herself on fire ya know.”

The woman finally took a second to breath.

I said “oh… well, maybe -”

“Mr. Larson, that wasn’t the worst of it.  I wouldn’t have called if it was just this.”

Oh, the flammable grandma is no cause for alarm?  I pondered this, as the bizarre reality continued to unfold.

“Mr. Larson, I went into her bathroom and… and she had covered her walls with her feces.”

For half a second, I thought someone was pulling a joke on me.  But there was no lie in this woman’s voice.  She was horrified.  I could feel the pure disgusting shock in her voice.  I didn’t say anything.  I had no idea what to say.

“It wasn’t just the walls, it was behind the toilet and inside all the cupboards.  There was some kind of design on the mirror.  WITH HER POOP MR. LARSON.”

The phone line was silent for too long.  Again, I was speechless. 

“Mr. Larson, I think you need to call Dana and get Miss Spelman out.”

I replied, “You are right, I’ll call her right away.”  It sounded natural, I thought, but at this point I wasn’t thinking.  I just replied with words I thought she wanted to hear.

“I’ll call.  Are you going back to Miss Spelman’s?”

“Unh uh.  No way.  That bat is beyond house care and I’m not cleaning that shit up.”

We said our goodbyes and hung up the phone.  I sat, thinking about this brutal glimpse I just had with the health care system.  There was an old lady, probably on fire, drawing pictures on her walls with a fist full of her own poop.  Right now at this second.  The lady who called me wasn’t going to deal with it, she just left. 

And called ME.

“Oh my god.  What am I going to do.” 

She didn’t call ME, she called Mr. Larson!  Mr. Larson was supposed to deal with this!  Who could I call?  How could I deal with this?  Her teeth were missing, she was walking around with a dozen feral cats, with tea in one hand and her own poop in the other. I did the only thing I could do.  I went back outside and sold my Jetta to two German exchange students attending the local college.  They paid in cash, and I never thought about Miss Spelmen again.

Sorry.