The other day I did something so deviant from how I grew up, what I learned, my sense of self, neighborhood, trust and community, that I fear California is seeping into my veins way too fucking deep.

My check engine light flashed on my dashboard, and knowing full well that it had been roughly 7,000 years since my last tune up, I figured my card could use a little servicing. Actually, I think we all could use a little servicing. I left the car in the work parking lot and walked home, knowing not much was to be done at 6 p.m. or so.

The next day, I called Goofy. For real, that’s the name the dude goes by, and his voicemail even says “Goofy’s auto repair,” or something like that. I knew of Goofy and had his digits, because a guy at work told me about him when he heard me pulling into the garage with the distinctive whistle of a worn belt. He either knows Goofy from around town, town being Redwood City, a neighboring community which is demographically and economically about 180 degrees from the vastly wealthy town where the old J.O.B. is located, or he knows him from high school, ibid on the demographic shift.

Apparently, Goofy is a great mechanic, who runs his own cash business doing repairs, and who can’t really work steadily on account of the occasional random stroke or seizure. Goofy is also willing to make house calls essentially.

Within an hour or so of my calling him, he swung by our work parking lot, hooked up a sensor and told me not to worry about the check engine light and to throw some water into my cooling system. He also said he could come back tomorrow, and he would take my car and give it a proper tune up.

Sure enough, he called me in the morning, and again about an hour later, I was standing in the work parking lot with Goofy. I handed over my keys and let him drive off into the day with little Beetle. The only collateral was a handshake and my having his mobile phone number.

I think I can state absolutely, unequivocally that when I lived in Cambridge it would be most unlikely I would toss a veritable stranger my keys and leave it at that. Here, with the sun smiling down on the ambrosia of mild summer days and fresh fruit, I waved at Goofy as he drove away. And, guess what? He came back and my car sounds great. Not only that, but the local papers haven’t been listing a sky blue VW convertible as a getaway car for an afternoon crime binge.

Fucking California.

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