Marv’s
As Megan drove us to Marv’s, she asked how much I thought they’d charge to get the Spray back. Other than the $25 I paid at the police station? I wondered. “I don’t think there’s a charge. We already paid to get it back,” I said and went in. All proceeded smoothly until the man behind the counter began scribbling something on a sheet of paper that looked for all intents and purposes like a receipt. “Whatcha doin’ there, boss?” I asked him, to which stated the amount of dollars he required in exchange for the Spray: 177. “I don’t suppose you accept checks or credit cards,” I said. “Cash only,” he said. As I walked out, the man stopped me. “We’re running low on change,” he said. “So bring small bills.” 

“You’re kidding,” Megan said, when I returned sans Spray. We hunted for an ATM in a strip mall a mile away, spotting a First Bank branch. Of course, the screen of the ATM read, “This ATM is temporarily out of service,” in mocking green type. Back in the car, Megan said, “You’re kidding.” At a nearby Target, I withdrew $200, and then bought Pizza Hut personal pan pizzas for the both of us, as a way to kill the pain of a day gone horribly wrong. Walking out the door, an old woman with a shopping cart started walking backwards, nearly knocking me over and causing me to drop my pizza on the carpet. On the way back to Megan’s car, she looked up. “It’s the little things that add up to the killing spree,” she said. 

Back at Marv’s, I paid and walked into the dusty lot to get the Spray. Sitting there, gritty buy alive, it was a sight for sore eyes. I realized I’d loved the old beast all along. “There, there, girl — they didn’t hurt you, did they?” I asked as I stroked the Spray’s chassis. I opened the passenger-side door, clambered into the driver’s seat, and started her up. Two blaze-orange slips stuck angrily from under the wiper blades. The same traffic cop who’d given the first ticket had, in a matter of three days, given two more, and then had the Spray imprisoned. Deep inside me, I created a little sticky note that read simply “Revenge.” 

As I drove through the chain link gate I waved farewell to Megan — she’d stood by me through two legs of my journey, but she couldn’t help me on this next one. I was off to the emissions testing facility. 

A Final Test
At the facility, I handed the Spray off to a man with yellow-tinted sunglasses, who affixed a hose to its tailpipe. I sat like an expectant father in a waiting room, drinking a Mountain Dew. Without passing this test I couldn’t get the Spray’s registration updated. Then what would happen? I wondered. Ten minutes later, the man with the shades asked me for $25. Cash, of course. He told me the Spray had passed. We had passed. As I got into the Spray the guy held his arm up to my window, revealing his watch. “The DMV closes at 4:30,” he said. “You’d better hurry.” His watch read 4:29. Why are you mocking me? I thought. 

The Return
The next day, I returned to the DMV, where I paid $250 for the registration (including the year’s back registration). I took the little stickers and affixed them to the Spray’s license plate, bringing it up to date for the first time in over a year. Sprayquest had finally ended. Today, the Spray is in full effect. If you don’t believe me, check out the pix.