This weekend, a car caught on fire outside the Yello Sub shop in town. This struck me as a strange bit of coincidence, because the very same thing happened to me about eight years ago. At the time, I had a K-car (you know, that scrappy species of car that includes the Dodge Aries and the Plymouth Reliant). I'd been having problems with it, naturally, and it had just gotten out of the shop that morning. As I started the car up to drive it home, a thin trickle of smoke crept out from beneath the hood. The mechanic swore this was normal. "That's cause we just worked on it," he said. "It'll taper off here pretty soon."

"Oh, okay," I said, and happily drove away—the most naive girl in the world.

I picked up my friend Thomas, and we decided sub sandwiches sounded just dandy. So we pulled up to Yello Sub, parked right in front, and went inside. We had just started perusing the menu, when the customer behind us made a panicked announcement.

"Oh my God, someone's car is on fire!"

And I knew it was mine. I knew it without turning around. There's a sixth sense you develop when your car is always on the verge of abyss, when it's so far gone that total meltdown is never more than a tenth of a mile away. This holds true whether your problem is a capricious battery or having to pour a quart of oil into the engine every few blocks. You become superstitious, chanting "just a few more blocks" every time you take a trip, and you breathe a little sigh of relief every time you reach your destination. So right away I knew it was mine. I had played fast and loose for too long, and now Retribution was hulking at my door.

The customer had jumped the gun—it wasn't exactly on fire. But the delicate plume of smoke had multiplied, becoming several much thicker plumes and, finally, one huge curtain of white-gray smoke. It was like the machinations of an enormous barbecue grill, like someone was cooking steaks on the manifold. (Incidentally, there's a cookbook about how to do this very thing, called Manifold Destiny.) As I watched in horror, there was a single, abstract moment where I drifted into an alternate world, where I imagined myself going outside with a blanket and making smoke signals. I imagined that I was alone on some tropical island, and that my only opportunity for escape was to create a pattern of smoke billows that would be spotted by a low-flying plane piloted by Harrison Ford.

About that time, the car erupted into flames. The guy behind the counter made quite a show of calling the fire department. He described the situation, and because the entire front of the store was glass (remember: my car was right in front), the fire department told the employee that he had to evacuate the restaurant right away. The announcement was made. The twenty or so customers grabbed their sandwiches and children and bolted outside, their faces registering confusion and fear. A baby was crying. We all had to stand behind this large brick partition on the west side of the building, so that if my car exploded, we wouldn't get hit with K-car shrapnel. I just sort of huddled there and tried very hard not to make eye contact with anyone—even Thomas. A few people were crouching and shielding their heads, waiting for the inevitable blast. (The thing about Kansans is that we adopt the "tornado posture" whenever there is any sort of danger around, whether it be a bank robbery, a flood, or an impending car explosion.) So there we all were in a predicament of my making. It felt like we were soldiers in a trench, waiting for the enemy to crest the hill.

Finally, the fire truck arrived. With their industrial hoses pumping untold gallons of water on my little junker, the fire eventually subsided. The K-car did not explode, and the head fireman announced that everyone could go about their business. Unfortunately, Thomas and I had to go back into the lion's den to use the phone. While we waited for the tow truck, the staff gave me the meanest looks they could muster. But they were hippies, so the most they managed was mild irritation.

It was a good four years before I went back to that place. But go back I did, because: a) their subs are the best, and b) I had to face my demon. Entering the Yello Sub now, I approach it with a sense of solemnity and respect, as if planning a picnic on a Civil War battle site.

Oh, and someone else has to drive.