The television in the mechanic's waiting room is big as a bouncer and loud as a bomb. We sit there, waiting for our sick and broken cars, our chairs arrayed in a half circle around the booming screen. Car trouble is like cancer, it does not discriminate: old, young, all colors and cultures. An older woman with a wool cap fidgets with her purse clasp, a young man tries to focus on a paperback, as the TV shouts at us about man-purses, diet tips, and ways to unleash our inner bitch. We are encouraged every few seconds to purchase somethingorother that promises to make our lives rich and satisfying. I drift into troubled sleep, haunted by dreams of carnival hawkers and con men. When I awake, the old woman and the young man have gone, replaced by different people, different faces. A local school, the TV tells me, is banning boots because kids hide phones in them. We make new laws every day, banning this or that. In the end we will ban everything except waiting rooms and televisions.