-- Tintown here... with many of my stories, look for links to my iAimoo Album for pictures of main (female adult) story character(s), external links to similar pictures of the vehicle(s) involved, and links for a location if needbe. And here's my list of other stories if you like what you read.

(about 2700 words)

98% AI: Toolbaz.com and Gemini 2.5 Flash! 

      I Met Her... Green Sweater...      

    The fluorescent hum of Olympia Markets was a familiar drone like grunge rock, a constant backdrop to the mundane ballet of grocery runs. For me, a man navigating the labyrinth of aisles, it was usually a quick in-and-out affair. But this morning at my usual Washington (state) establishment, the rhythm was about to shift.

    I was wrestling with the squeaky wheels of today’s cart around the aisle endcap when it happened. My unwieldy cart veered slightly, just as another cart emerged from out of sight. There was a gentle, resonant thud as the metal frames kissed.

    “Oh, excuse me!” I blurted out, a flush rising to my cheeks.

    “My apologies, young man,” an older woman’s voice replied, surprisingly clear and calm.

    I looked up. 

    She was indeed older, her face a roadmap of fine lines and gentle wrinkles. Her hair, a soft silver, was styled neatly. She wore a emerald green sweater, layered over a white floral print turtleneck. Her beige trousers completed the ensemble. Her eyes, a startlingly vibrant blue, met mine with a kind twinkle.

    “No, no, it was entirely my fault,” I insisted, already pulling my cart backwards, the wheels groaning in protest. “My apologies.”

    She chuckled, a soft, warm sound. “Well, no harm done. Perhaps we both need to pay a little bit more attention.” She offered a small, knowing smile, then steered her own much lighter cart around mine. I watched her go, a fleeting impression of quiet dignity and a gentle spirit. Then, the rhythmic clack-clack of her cart wheels faded into the general supermarket din, and I resumed my mission to gather my groceries.

    Later, I pushed the heavy cartload through the automatic doors into the cool autumn air. The parking lot was a sprawling asphalt sea, dotted with weathered vehicles. My own modest sedan, a reliable but unexciting beige Toyota, was a few rows out.

    As I approached my car, something caught my eye. Right next to my Toyota, taking up an impressive amount of space, was an old, OLD,  baby blue boxy 80s-something Volkswagen Vanagon. Its paint, though faded, still held a faint glimmer of its original cheerful hue. The squared windows reflected the grey sky. Peeking through its window, I could make out tall, worn seats and a long, manual gear shifter extending from the floor, almost daring me to give it a try. It looked like a box on wheels, a relic from a bygone era. Maybe there had been a big baby blue box parked at my local Olympia Markets, just was never besides my Toyota to notice.

    I was reaching into my pocket for my car keys when I heard the familiar clack-clack of a shopping cart again. I looked up. It was her. The woman from inside the store, the one with the emerald sweater and the kind blue eyes. She was pushing her cart with a slow, deliberate pace, her gaze fixed on that baby blue van. My eyebrows lifted in surprise. That behemoth of a vehicle was hers?

  --- 2 ---  

    She reached the back of the Vanagon, her movements a little stiff, and began fumbling with the cart. I decided to introduce myself. “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said, stepping closer. “We just bumped carts inside.”

    She looked up, recognition lighting her eyes. “Oh, yes! The young man who was so apologetic. My memory isn't quite what it used to be, but I do remember your good manners. Are you parked next to this… contraption?” She gestured vaguely at the Vanagon with a slight grimace that suggested less affection for the vehicle and more a resigned tolerance.

    “Yes, I am,” I replied, extending my hand. “I’m Matthew. Matthew Jensen.”

    She took my hand, her grip surprisingly firm and warm. “Mildred. Mildred Albrecht. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Matthew.” She had a classic, almost old-fashioned way of speaking, each word enunciated clearly.

    “Pleased to meet you too, ma’am,” I said, then gestured to the van. “If you don’t mind me asking, is this yours?”

    A sigh escaped her lips, a sound of gentle exasperation. “Oh, goodness, no. Not by choice, anyway. It used to be my daughter-in-law’s. She insisted I have it when she upgraded to something more ‘sensible,’ as she put it. Sensible for her, perhaps. For me? It’s like driving a Model A again...” She waved a dismissive hand. “It’s the bane of my existence, this thing. Too big, for one. And as for reliability…” She rolled her eyes theatrically, a flash of humor there. “Well, let’s just say it has a mind of its own. A very stubborn, very expensive mind.”

    I glanced at her grocery cart, then at the vast interior of the Vanagon. “Well, I can see how it might be a bit much for you and just a few groceries,” I offered sympathetically. I also noticed that no bagboy had come out with her, which was odd for Olympia Markets. They usually prided themselves on service.

    “Indeed,” Mildred agreed, looking a little flustered. She was trying to lift her milk carton out of the cart, but it seemed heavier than she anticipated.

    “Ma’am, would you like a hand with your groceries?” I asked, stepping forward. “It looks like they might have forgotten to send out a bagboy with you.”

    Her eyes brightened. “Oh, Matthew, that would be an absolute godsend! I seem to have acquired a large sack of rice today, and my back isn’t what it used to be.” She gestured to a substantial, 20-pound sack of rice nestled at the bottom of her cart. “My neighbor insisted I needed it.”

  --- 3 ---  

    “Consider it done,” I said, feeling a natural urge to help. I reached for the rice sack just as Mildred began fumbling with a small ring of keys in her hand. They slipped from her grasp and clattered to the asphalt with a metallic clink.

    “Oh, bother!” she exclaimed, bending over to retrieve them. Her posture, though slightly stooped with age, was still surprisingly flexible. As she leaned forward, her beige trousers pulled taut over her lower back and hips. I couldn't help but notice, with a fleeting, unexpected sight, the distinct outline of her underwear. It was a brief observation that my brain registered and then quickly filed away. She swiftly picked up the keys, oblivious to my unbidden gaze, and stood up with a  grunt.

    “Thank you, dear,” she said, dusting off the keys. She then located the lock on the Vanagon’s side door. With a satisfying clunk, she unlocked it, and with a surprising heave, rolled open the large, heavy sliding door. It glided along its track with a soft, squeaky whish, revealing the cavernous, almost empty interior.

    “There we are,” she announced, stepping aside. “Just set them anywhere, really. It’s not as if I’m short on space.”

    I began loading her groceries. The milk, the bread, the few vegetables. Then came the rice. It was heavy, as she’d warned, but manageable. I carefully maneuvered it and set it just inside the door. “All done,” I said, as I rolled the door closed, wiping my palms on my jeans.

    “Oh, Matthew, you’re a lifesaver,” she said, her smile genuine. “Thank you so much.” She offered me a few dollars. “For your trouble.”

    “No, ma'am, please,” I said, gently batting her hand away. “No trouble at all. Glad to help.”

    She nodded, a faint blush on her cheeks. “Well, in that case, thank you again. I suppose I’d better get this old thing started.”

    I watched as she hoisted herself into the driver’s seat, which seemed to be slid forward than normal. It was a surprisingly athletic maneuver for someone her age, involving a bit of a climb and a shimmy. Once settled, she adjusted the seat, which seemed to swallow her whole. She wiggled the gear shifter and inserted the key into the ignition.

    Click.

    She turned the key.

  --- 4 ---  

    BWINNaa-WINNa-WINNa-WINNa, WINNa-WINNa-WINNa-WINNa… The gear shifter was twitching. The engine coughed once. WINNa-WINNa-WINNa-WINNa, WINNa-WINNa-WINNa-WINNa… A second turn, a longer rumble of the starter. BWINNaa-WINNa-WINNa-WINNa, WINNa-WINNa-WINNa-WINNa… COUGH… SPUT… Nothing.

    She tried a third time. BWINNaa-WINNa-WINNa-WINNa, WINNa-WINNa-WINNa-WINNa. RRRROOOOM… The engine finally caught, but it sounded like a dying beast, even squeakier than the wheels on my shopping cart. RUTTA-RUTTA-RUTTA-rutta, RUTTA-RUTTA-RUTTA-rutta... A deep, uneven rumble, punctuated by what sounded distinctly like a POP-POP-POP-pop, POP-POP-POP-pop, from the exhaust, as if something wasn’t quite right. The whole Vanagon shuddered and vibrated, sending tremors through the asphalt. A cloud of bluish, acrid smoke momentarily puffed from the bouncing exhaust pipe.

    I winced. RUTTA-RUTTA-RUTTA-rutta, RUTTA-RUTTA-RUTTA-rutta... That did not sound healthy. And despite her earlier claims, the sound of the engine was not just rough; it sounded genuinely unwell. RUTTA-RUTTA-RUTTA-rutta, RUTTA-RUTTA-RUTTA-rutta... I instinctively knew this wasn’t just a “mind of its own” issue. This was a mechanical crisis.

    I walked over to the driver’s side window. Knock, knock, knock on the glass. The engine noise was so loud I had to knock firmly. RUTTA-RUTTA-RUTTA-rutta, RUTTA-RUTTA-RUTTA-rutta...

    Mildred turned, her face a mixture of relief and apprehension at the engine’s racket. She saw me. With a sigh, she reached over and turned the ignition key back to the 'off' position. RUTT-RA-rutt-rutt. The sudden silence was almost deafening in comparison, broken only by the residual clicks and pings of a cooling engine.

    “Everything alright, Mrs. Albrecht?” I asked, leaning in slightly.

    “Oh, Matthew! You startled me. Yes, just… the usual theatrics,” she said, forcing a smile.

    “It sounds a bit more than theatrics,” I said gently. “Mind if I…?” I gestured to the open side door.

    “Oh, please, come in,” she said, her smile broadening with genuine relief. “It’ll be nice to have someone else in this behemoth for a change.”

    I ducked my head and climbed in, dodging the gear shifter and taking the passenger seat. The worn fabric, the smell of old upholstery and faintly, something like stale coffee and ozone, filled the air. The long gear shifter was indeed an imposing presence between the two front seats, especially for a frail hand like Mildred’s. She looked at me expectantly.

    “Ma'am,” I began, choosing my words carefully. “I couldn’t help but notice the way your Vanagon sounds. It’s… well, it’s not really running right. And you mentioned it’s too big for you, and not very reliable.”

    She nodded, her expression grim. “It’s a constant worry, Matthew. Every time I turn the key, I wonder if this will be the day it finally gives up the ghost. I just see an enormous, temperamental metal box.”

    “Well, you know,” I continued, a thought forming, “I have a friend in the car business. He specializes in finding reliable, practical vehicles for people. He’s a good guy, very honest. I’m thinking he might be able to help you find something much more suitable for you. Something smaller, easier to handle, and more reliable than this… Vanagon.” as I grasped the gear shifter and rocked it back and forth.  “Something that won’t give you so much grief.”

    Her eyes widened, a flicker of hope in them. “Oh, Matthew, do you really think so? That would be… simply marvelous. I’ve been dreading trying to find a new car, honestly. It’s all so complicated these days.”

    “Absolutely,” I said, reaching into my back pocket for my wallet, pulling out a spare business card I had scribbled my friend, Dave’s, number on a while back. “Here’s his number. His name is Dave. Tell him Matthew sent you. He’ll take good care of you.”

    She took the card, her fingers trembling slightly as she tucked it into her purse. “Matthew, you truly are a godsend. Thank you, thank you so much.” She squeezed my arm gently.

    “My pleasure, Mrs. Albrecht,” I said, genuinely pleased to have offered some practical help. “Now, can we try to start this old girl again?”

    “Of course,” she said, a renewed sense of dread washing over her face. 

  --- 5 ---  

    She turned the key again.

    BWINNaa-WINNa-WINNa-WINNa, WINNa-WINNa-WINNa-WINNa… RRRROOOOM… The engine sprang to life again, but the rough, loping idle was even more pronounced. RUTTA-RUTTA-RUTTA-rutta, RUTTA-RUTTA-RUTTA-rutta... The Vanagon vibrated violently, the sound of an internal struggle emanating from its rear. The exhaust fumes, thick and pungent, wafted into the open side door.

    “Ma'am, can you turn it off for a second?” I asked. Mildred nodded and killed the engine again. The sudden quiet was a relief.

    “Mrs. Albrecht,” I said, leaning forward. “Is the rear engine lid unlocked?”

    She looked confused for a moment. “The… the what now, dear?”

    “The engine lid,” I clarified. “In the back. To check the engine.”

    “Oh! No, I don’t think so. Why?”

    “I’d like to check something,” I said. “Can I have your keys for a moment?”

    She withdrew the key and handed them to me. “Be my guest, dear. Just please, don’t catch anything on fire.” There was a nervous laugh in her voice.

    I hopped out of the passenger seat, walked around the back of the Vanagon. The rear engine lid was indeed locked. I found the right key, inserted it, and twisted. With a satisfying click, the sturdy latches released. I then lifted the lid. A blast of warm air, charged with the smell of gasoline and hot metal, immediately hit me. I could see the spark plug wires, the fan, the air cleaner on the flat-four unit.

    I returned to the driver’s side door, handing the keys back to Mildred. “Alright, ma’am, engine lid’s open. Let me get back there and can you start it up again for me?”

    She nodded, a worried frown on her face. BWINNaa-WINNa-WINNa-WINNa, WINNa-WINNaa, RROOOOM… The engine coughed to life, rough and uneven. RUTTA-RUTTA-RUTTA-rutta. POP-POP-POP-pop...

    I walked to the back of the Vanagon, listening intently. The sound from the bouncing  exhaust pipe was unmistakable. It was a rhythmic POP-POP-POP-pop, POP-POP-POP-pop.. I quickly traced the spark plug wires, feeling for warmth, listening for the distinct CLICK of the spark. One cylinder was audibly misfiring.

  --- 6 ---  

    I walked back to the passenger side, leaned in, and waited for her to notice me. She turned, her eyes wide with apprehension.

    “Ma'am,” I said, leaning closer, my voice calm but firm. “Right now, the engine is running on only three of the four cylinders. That’s why it's so rough, and why it’s vibrating so much.”

    Her jaw dropped slightly. “Oh, my word! Only three? Is that… is that bad?”

    “It means it needs a little attention,” I clarified. “Just a spark plug or a wire, something like that. But it needs to be looked at by a mechanic. Not just Dave, but a VW mechanic. Driving it like this for too long could cause more serious damage.”

    She looked utterly overwhelmed. “Oh, dear. Oh, Matthew, what on earth would I do without you? First the groceries, now this. You truly are a godsend. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Her eyes welled up slightly.

    “It’s really no problem, Mrs. Albrecht,” I said, feeling a warmth spread through me. It was nice to be genuinely helpful. “Just make sure you get it looked at soon. I’ll close the engine lid, and you’ll be off.”

    She nodded. “Wonderful! You can call me Millie, sir. I’m sure I’ll see you again at Olympia.” She grabbed a napkin from within the glove compartment, then a pen from her purse. “Here’s my number. Anything. At your service.”

    "Why thank you, Millie," I said, taking the endorsed napkin. The unexpected warmth of the interaction was a pleasant surprise.

    "Well," she said, bracing herself for the inevitable. "Time to wrestle this thing home."

    “Take care,” I replied, trying to suppress a grin. This woman was a character. And, a rather delightful one. I hustled back to the rear of Mildred’s Vanagon, lowered the lid, and back up to hopefully catch the ignition key being turned.

    And I did. Through the Vanagon’s side window I watched Millie wiggle the gear shift and turn the ignition key.

    BWINNaa-WINNa-WINNa-WINNa, WINNa-WINNa-WINNa, rutt, rutt…Pause. BWINNaa-WINNa-WINNa-WINNa, WINNa-WINNa-WINNa-WINNa… RRRROOOOM… The engine caught, still uneven, still sounding like a worn-out washing machine. RUTTA-RUTTA-RUTTA-rutta., RUTTA-RUTTA-RUTTA-rutta. She put it in gear, but it ground, refusing to engage. KKAAAKKK! She tried again, and again, before finally, with a lurch, the Vanagon shuddered into reverse gear.

    With another series of uneven coughs and splutters, the baby blue Vanagon began to back out. Millie waved a hand from behind the wheel, a small, hopeful smile on her face. The rear of the Vanagon now faced me as the POP-POP-POP-pop, POP-POP-POP-pop, continued from the bouncing exhaust pipe below the older green-on-white Washington state license plate. The big, blue vehicle with its unexpected driver drove away. I was left holding a napkin bearing 'Millie Albrecht’ and a phone number. 

    Something told me this wasn't the last I'd see of her and her temperamental Vanagon...

-- Mr. Matthew Jensen