Regular Life

You ever have everything going just right, and then you do something stupid that screws it all up?

This morning had a storybook beginning, turned Brothers Grimm in the middle, and then showed hope again at the end.

I wake up after getting more sleep last night, get up, get ready for my class, bring breakfast up from the lobby, read Dave’s and Simon’s blogs, and then head out with plenty of time to get there by 8 a.m. I whistle happily and tap rhythms on the elevator walls as I descend from the fifth floor (for real, ask anybody who’s been around me — I’m a whistler and a tapper). I get in my sage green rented Taurus and drive the now-familiar roads toward IBM’s building 632. As I make a right turn, I reach for the dashboard climate controls to knock off the chill. Ah, a chill on a late April morning. Perfect.

Unfamiliar with the controls, I keep my eyes down a little longer than usual. I look up just in time to see the right side of my car slam into the curb and run up on the grass. “Foot!” I say, only it is actually the “f” word. I quickly steer back onto the road. I wait for it. That dreaded feeling of driving on a flat. Maybe it isn’t that bad.

Whump-whump-whump-whump.

“Foot!”

It is that bad.

I turn immediately into a Bojangles restaurant parking lot. Knowing I will be late to class, I dial my instructor’s number and leave him a voicemail. I am fairly calm at this point.

Before I can dig the spare from the trunk, I have to move my camera equipment, laptop, and hiking clothes to the back seat. Getting a bit huffy at this point.

I pull up the trunk flooring to reveal the spare. It’s there. Thank you Avis. Mark not pissed yet, but that spare’s not there, Mark very pissed. Chuckling at the thought that anybody would be intimidated by that, I regain my compusure as I unscrew the plastic wingnut to loosen the spare. Things are looking up again.

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I loosen the lug nuts enough that I can turn them with my fingers, then place the jack under the correct spot on the car’s frame. It’s the kind of jack that starts out as a squashed triangle, and gets taller with each crank of the handle. Things are going well. I check my watch so I can time myself, and recall seven minutes as my personal best.

The jack gets beyond the extension of the shocks and other bits I can’t name, and takes on some of the car’s real weight.

The car lurches forward. The jack stays on its feet, but bends noticeably. I fume.

“No, no, no! I didn’t set the parking brake. Shoot! Foot me!”

I try to turn the jack handle. It doesn’t move either way. I storm to the other side of the car and start it up. With the driver’s door open, I gently depress the accelerator, and I feel the car drop back onto the flat. I shove the parking brake all the way down.

“Foot!” I yell as I slam the front door with both hands. A Bojangles employee, sweeping the parking lot, looks over at me a moment, then continues his work.

The trunk is open wide, laughing at me. I put both hands on it and give it a hard slam. My left arm comes down and knocks my mobile phone off my belt. The phone skids across the parking spot next to mine.

“Consarnit! Foot! Shoot!”

I pick up my phone and the belt clip holster, which is broken. I toss the useless plastic over my shoulder. I toss the phone onto the passenger’s seat.

The jack is stiff but I manage to turn it. When I put it under the car, I can’t get enough leverage to hold it still with one hand while cranking it with the other. I lie there on the asphalt wondering how long it will take Avis to get here.

“Excuse me. We thought you looked like you could use a hand.”

I turn to see two older men walking around from the rear of the car. Both look about 60 years old, one bearded and balding, one not. Going inside Bojangles to ask for help never occurred to me. An I.D. badge hangs from a lanyard around Beard’s neck, but I can’t see the front of it.

“Sure,” I say, in the first curse-free sentence in the last 10 minutes.

I give them a quick run-down on the situation as Hair squats to get a better look. He grabs the jack and cranks as I hold it. It moves and he continues until the flat tire leaves the ground.

“There’s no reason for you to lie there doing that,” I say. “I just needed help getting it started. I don’t want to risk getting you hurt using that messed-up jack.”

“No, that’s okay. I’m retired from IBM and don’t have anything better to do right now,” Hair says.

“I’m surprised anybody was willing to come out and help me after I acted like such an idiot,” I say.

Beard chimes in. “He was in maintenance for years, so he knows about things going wrong.”

I take off the lugs and the wheel, then place the spare and work to tighten the lugs.

“I guess I’ll just call Avis and tell them what happened,” I say. I push down hard on the lug wrench.

“Oh yeah, they should bring you another car,” Hair says.

“As tight as you have that spare, I think you’ll be fine until they get here,” Beard says. “Well, I better be getting back to work.”

I thank the guys again, profusely, and shake their hands before going inside to wash mine. Those are nice guys.

I arrive at class 45 minutes late. One of my lab mates tells me that the instructor told them my car blew up. He embellished quite a bit, but at least I know he got my message.

I manage to think about class a little bit before we break for lunch. Avis says they can send someone, or I can take it in and get a replacement much more quickly. I do that over lunch break, and it takes me less than 30 minutes to drive there, do the paperwork, and order at the Arby’s drive-thru.

I’m now driving a Pontiac Grand Prix with dual-exhaust. Although I like it much better than the Taurus, I do not recommend my method of getting a different car.

I go for a walk around a lake in Raleigh and then have dinner with a hiking group I met through Meetup.com. Great finish. Sometimes you just have to hang in there. Now, if I could just eliminate the tantrums, life would be much better.