And Then Guess What Happened?

So I do not have to break the narrative flow, go read yesterday's post before reading this if you haven't already. (Although I wish I could say this portion of the story involves ninja stars and flying maxi pads, alas, it does not. That would have made for a much more fun day.)

D and I sat for a moment, staring at each other in horror. The project buildings loomed on either side of the road, blankets taped over the windows for warmth and dilapidated cars missing essential parts (like, oh WINDOWS and DOORS) lined the parking lot. Not a gas station in sight, not a single business we could pop into and borrow the phone. A bus hub was visible on the next street over, which promised either a good Samaritan or a mugger would eventually walk by.

"We'll have to change it," D announced, and we opened the trunk to pull out our supplies. I have never had to change a tire on this car before, so the spare and the jack had been screwed into the trunk at the factory tighter than Ralph Nadar's wallet.

After tugging and heaving a while, D got the spare and the jack out, and for the next fifteen minutes wrestled with the tire. The temperature was a balmy 0 degrees F, or -18 C. We managed to get the car jacked and the lug nuts off, but the tire would not come off the car.

He pulled. I pulled. We pulled together. Two cops drove by, completely ignoring us. Cars passed, oblivious. A city bus slowed to a stop, letting a stream of people on and off, none of whom stopped to help.

D slumped against the gutter, defeated. The tire would not budge, and we had no avenue of escape.

This is the point in the plot where the stumped author would typically introduce a deus ex machina. If I were writing this story, it would have been a fleet of maxi-pad throwing ninjas. And then the Publisher's Clearing House van would have stopped by to fling a million dollar check at us and I would buy a boat and name it after my first best-selling novel and spend the winter off the coast of Fiji.

Instead, a car slowed and pulled into the space behind us.

D gripped the tire iron again and I moved to close the passenger side door. A man got out and walked towards us, holding up his hands to show they were empty. "Do you need some help? I used to work for AAA," he said, stopping well behind the car.

"We can't get the tire off," I told him, as D started to say, in typical alpha-male fashion, that we were fine.

"Oh, that happens all the time!" he laughed, and before we could stop him he grabbed the back of our car, swung under it, and kicked our tire completely off.

In retrospect, he did that a little too well.

"Thanks!" D and I laughed, as he jumped back into the Batmobile and waved goodbye. Who knew that Batman was moonlighting as an overweight former mechanic for AAA?

The spare now on, D and I slowly inched our way onto the interstate, our day now shot. Realizing that it was high noon and, since we now had a new tire to buy, we were broke, we decided to look for the art gallery and grab a cheap lunch before heading home.

And, of course, we got lost.

In our defense, there was no street sign for the road we needed to take.

Twenty minutes of aimless driving and wrong turns finally turned up the unmarked art gallery, which was not worth the drama entailed in looking for it.

Fortunately, they had a bathroom, which was all I cared about at that point.

D and I stopped in a coffee shop, split a sandwich, and headed home in defeat. It was after two when we arrived home, which meant there was enough time left in the day for me to get a new tire.

In retrospect, going to Wal-Mart to have this done was not the wisest decision I have ever made.

But you can shop while you get it fixed! Shopping! While waiting!

In theory this is a good thing. In actuality, I waited three hours at Wal-Mart before they finally fixed my car.

There is only so much one can do at Wal-Mart for three hours.

Shall I tell you about the extremely gay man who talked to me the first hour about his dog? The angry housewife who bitched about EVERYTHING in life through the second hour? How about the elderly man who told me all about his prostate problems and then tried to make me touch his head where, yes, I could clearly see the absence of skull from where they did brain surgery on him when he fell out of a tree.

By the time I got home, all I wanted to do was go to bed.

But no! There were calls to return!

beep: "Hey, Soper, this is friend number one, I just wanted to see if you would babysit for free for me next week since you have no kids and no life and no excuse not to."

beep: "Hey, Soper, this is friend number two, whose kid you already took pictures of for free two months ago, wanting to know if you would take MORE free pictures of my kid since, you know, you have no kids and no life and no excuse not to."

beep: "Hey, Soper, this is the state bar calling to tell you that you miscalculated your continuing education hours and, if you don't want to be disbarred, you must get the necessary 7/10ths of a credit by the end of the month and send us a $100 fine even though you are broke and just spent all the money you earned this month buying a new damn tire."

beep: "Hey, Soper, this is your sub-conscious calling you, wondering why you don't just tell everybody to fuck off and go take a nap."

I have decided that I shall return that last call first.

Comments

[Cynthia]

here here...for making the correct response "call" I have had days like that, everyone has...but at least you can get through yours with humor and make us laugh reading about them. So thanks? *lol*