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There's something funny 'bout men. But it's the thing that makes
us so charming (or brutish, depending on how this trait plays itself
out).
We're stupid.
Now all you lovely women out there
can stop chuckling, this isn't a validation of your poorly crafted
denunciations of our sex, just a simple observation. We don't "think",
we simply posses ideas we assume to be correct, which we then aggressively
seek to prove publicly. It's not sexism that's kept the number of
women in the cannon of genius at a low percentage, it's the fact
that they insist on thinking. And all great paradigmatic leaps,
at their core, are initiated in a kind of lunacy. And men are hard
wired to be lunatics. This little story makes no pretension to genius,
not it's roots, just to show how a nice, reasonably intelligent
guy (okay, might be pushing credulity) can find himself in the grips
of his masculine nature, helpless to resist.
I used to live in a lovely little townhouse
in the hinterlands of Northern Virginia's Suburbs, which I couldn't
afford, and thus had to rent the basement to whatever transient
had a fist full of soiled currency (I'm being harsh, many of my
renters were delightful folks). At the time of this story, the space
was occupied by fifty-ish divorcee with a poodle. She rarely left
her space, preferring to zone to the tube (she once horrified the
love of my life by coming upstairs, barefoot, with grass clippings
protruding from between her gnarled toes). My dear friend Todd came
to refer to her as "the woman under the stairs", which was so appropriate
it became her "official" name. She was a kind soul, just a little
nutty, and without her help I'd never have been successful in my
quest. But I digress, it all started one very gloomy, cold Sunday
morning...
So I get up at an absurd hour (I think
it was five), and after some coffee and tiring of being stealthy
(out of deference to The Woman Under the Stairs), I decided to get
a work out in. My truck was flat-lined, no signs of mechanical life,
just an impotent key trying to stimulate an indifferent ignition
lover. Lights worked, but I was gettin' nuthin'. This being Sunday,
7:00 am, my options were limited. Started reading my Hayes Ford
Ranger handbook (absurd on its face, because I'm about as "mechanical"
as a tulip), but I knew, KNEW it had to be the solenoid relay.or
maybe it was the battery, enough juice to light a bulb, not enough
to crank? Now I'm no grease monkey, I don't even play one on TV,
but that uniquely male, testosterone driven, lizard brain, "don't
need no directions", "bachelor party strippers" "if it doesn't smell,
wear it" thought process kicked in. Kicked in hard.
I will fix this thing.
The day was ass.cold, rainy, windy,
stinky. Me Man. Me No Care. Me Fix Truck.
Wearing a sweatshirt and gym shorts
(gotta' have mobility, and heaven forbid I ruin some ten dollar
sweatpants), I set off to bring life from lifelessness. After involving
my brother-in-law Randy, a talented professional auto mechanic (trying
to enjoy his Sunday yet humoring my madness) in diagnostic phone
calls early in the process, (and two rides to Trak Auto using T.W.U.T.S.'s
car, one for the pointless solenoid, one to check the battery charge...all
to no avail, telling me nothing). I identified my prey...The Starter.
Of course, why hadn't I thought of that?!? Oh sure it's completely
inaccessible, oh yeah, I've got no real tools, oh yeah I fit under
that truck like those long T-shirt wearing women fit into those
lycra bicycle shorts. Would this stop me? NO. Reason had long left
this process. Spent two hours trying to get the rusted, corroded
thing off. Lying in rivers of icy water, washing over my grit covered
back, rain driving on my bare, exposed legs. Pinioned so tightly
beneath the chassis that only one hand can be used, which one depended
on the angle taken. The starter crumbles off the car, onto my face
and into my eyes, as I disengage it.
At least I'm pretty sure I found the
prob.
The woman under the stairs loans me
her car again. It's not in the best shape, and the speedometer is
displaying in kilometers, and the interior reminds me of crack houses
I've seen on TV. After some delay, as the counter jockeys learned
how to read the computer screen, the grail is in my hand.
It's around 4:00 now, two hours till
they close. If this doesn't work, I still have a shot at getting
back...new solutions. But I must focus, work fast.
It's so cold. Around 45. The real rain
starts; I'm oblivious, soaked like the way dogs are soaked coming
out of a lake. After and hour, the starter is in. Time to reconnect
the relay and battery, time to catch the full force of the wind.
My pal John David (about 6) comes walking
up in a sensible pancho, clutching a carrying case of some kind.
He notices the obvious (my focus too intense to bother) that I'm
shaking, not shivering, but shaking like an epileptic in the grips
of a powerful episode.
"Hi Mr. Greg, long time no see."
"Hi John David, how's it going?"
"I've got real money in this"
"Excellent, how much?"
"Got a hundred and thirty three Pokemon
cards...hey, Mr. Greg, you look real cold"
"Yeah, it's kind of chilly today"
"No, I mean really cold, you're really,
you know, shaky. I think maybe you should go inside and maybe put
on like a dry shirt and maybe some pants, and like maybe a jacket.
That's what I do when I get cold."
"Good advice, John David. I'll be done
pretty soon. I'll dry up good."
"Okay, see ya' Mr. Greg, don't be such
a stranger."
A child had come speaking my Mother's
words. The wisdom undeniable. I returned to my obsession. It all
came together. That bad boy fired up. The sense of validation was
palpable, like a warm brown sugar cinnamon Pop Tart in your mouth.
I'd won. Not just getting the truck to start, but crushing the convention
that you need to "rely" on experts. I'd saved, like, five hundred
bucks at the mere cost of my personal health.
The real question I have is would it
have been better if it didn't? Failed and called the tow truck?
Should this kind of idiotic behavior be rewarded with success?
You bet your ass baby.
Back
to main stories page
Omens,
Best intentions and Flat Tires
Werewolves
Kickin'
it on Wall Street
Am
I in the Storm
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