Hoping our paths don't cross again.

I should have known better. Right from the start. A guy with the name Mugsy rented me a car. With the gas tank nearly empty. And with the understanding that's the way I was to return the vehicle. On a wing and a prayer. With only fumes left in the tank. But this was Iceland. And I thought maybe the rental car business is a little backward there. Anyway, off I went, in the first Renault I had ever driven. Driving on faith. And stopping at the nearest petrol station for a fill that cost 10,000 kronus. And it was to be an adventure. With two flat tires. One in the middle of nowhere. And an inability to loosen the spare tire from beneath the vehicle. Because the apparatus that held the tire in place had been improperly maintained. Soon I sensed that Mugsy hadn't told me lots of things about the vehicle. Or about Icelandic roads. Many of 'em gravel. And with conflicting road signs at the same intersection. Telling me that the next town, both with the same name, was 63 kilometers and 124 kilometers away. Take my choice. Anyway, I'm thankful that I had nothing more serious than flat tires. With a jack I didn't know how to use. But fortunately, passersby that did. Ten days later, I'm in Mugsy's office. In Reyklavik. And I tell Mugsy I want a reduced price. Because of delays and the fact that I had to buy a spare tire. Mugsy tells me no way. Pay up or he'll call the police. Call the police, I tell him, maybe they can arbitrate our differences. Turns out, Mugsy was just bluffing. I tell him I'm gonna subtract a day from my bill. We shout at each other. And I get my way. But the next day, we make peace with each other. Mugsy and I shake hands. Hoping our paths don't cross again. --Jim Broede