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It's 11:00 p.m., just got settled in from my day, it's late for
me, but I'm too cranked to let this moment pass.
So, I'm driving into work today.
It's 7:00 am on a freezing Monday morning, just running the drill.
Same road, same destination.same-o same-o. I catch a fully lit fire
engine in my peripheral vision, it's coming off the ramp and slowing
behind the yellow-orange "drivers assistance" vehicle that seems
to be assisting no one. A momentary curiosity. About a mile back
in the rear view, I see the fire truck pull back into traffic. Still
lit. Well, me, I've got my own concerns, gotta' finish my coffee
before I hit the parking lot or else the whole well honed process
will be thrown out of whack. Then I see it. A Toyota, on the shoulder
to the right, engulfed in flames you only see in movies. The hot
red-yellow tongues lick the cold black morning sky, two stories
high. It's surreal, mostly because of how well we've insulated ourselves
against "nature". You just don't run into many flaming objects that
you didn't initiate. And of the entire swirl of thoughts that flashed
into my tiny mind (concern for the owners safety, the ephemeral
nature of life, how we drive around in rolling bombs, etc.) there
was one feeling I couldn't shake.
Nothing good would come of this
day.
Now I ain't' superstitious (although
I do love the Stevie Wonder song), and I'm not one for believing
in the "ooga-booga" factors in existence. But I'm not blind to the
underlying rhythms of life, and there are streams of portent that
culminate in rivers of events. And this has been one of those years,
so this was gonna' be one of those days.
The year began with great promise,
in particular professionally. I'd chosen to stay with my firm, because
an opportunity had presented itself that would allow me to do three
things that had eluded me in the previous five years (and had prompted
my planned departure). Run my own shop, work in a cool, vibrant
sector (the "web") and teach. All with a group of the best people
I've ever been associated with. Slowly over the year, things were
stripped away, vital structural things that caused all of us to
run for the "next best" solutions. This had a grinding quality (what's
the phrase? "The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they grind
to dust"?) which coupled with my inability to chance upon love (a
big deal with us art boys) made for a somewhat annoying, and essentially
"joyless" year. I ain't whining, but the thing that's been buggin'
me is that all this stuff's monkeying with my Christmas spirit.
And the ill omens of the day were just driving home this "Grinchy"
feeling. I love this time of year, not for the greeting card sentiments,
but for the very human concept of a time of giving, and joy in the
simple fact of life. Preparation and time are a big part of this
season. When a years gone well, I've already designed a Christmas
card, drawn it, printed it and gotten' my gifts at least planned.
Here I sit on December 18 with nothing, and planning on, dear God,
once again getting "store bought" cards. I wanna' hurl.
Anyway, the point of this was today.
I pride myself on not only doing
my "job", but making things happen that would cause others to shudder
in fear of taking the same task. And this season has found this
particular point of pride wanting. Due to a number of reasons (excuses?),
I find myself less than the stud muffin (work wise) than my ego
would project. But, today, yes today, I was to turn that around
by gum. Didn't happen. What was to be a day of unparalleled, awe
inspiring butt-kickery was squandered on the altar of bad process
and the truly quirky and "ass munch" nature of html code. Lots of
frustration, wasted time and flipping the "finger" at a computer
that truly couldn't care less. The day grew late, my best intentions
lay flopping like a beached manta ray, but I had to go. This day
was cursed, and it was time to put paid to this gibberish. Got my
evening coffee and headed for the door.
The truck fired up fine. I popped
that sucker into reverse and headed to safe harbor. Uh oh. Not moving
quite right, sluggish. Is the break stuck? Roll out of the spot
and head out of the lot. This just ain't right, better stop and
see what's up. The left rear is flatter n' a wet napkin soaking
up coffee. Very cold. Gotta' think. Being a man, the notion of paying
for outside help is pretty much out of the question. So, trapped
by testosterone, I set about righting a wrong with no notion of
the details. Oh, and such details. The spare is wedged up under
the body of the truck with a kind of "T" shaped contraption, held
in place by an elegantly placed single bolt. Some time ago a crazed,
drug addled hit-and-run artist was kind enough to crush my back
bumper on my way home from a delightful evening with a beautiful
woman. The woman's gone; the bumper's still bent, tucked nicely
over the restraining bolt. The frozen tire iron in my oh-so-bare
hands is just a little too big. Must have tools. The office is next
door to one of those massive blank, oafish shopping malls designed
for the lumpen, packed with pre-Christmas scramblers. I play "Frogger"
through the packed streets and lunatic parking maneuvers. Hit Sears
and start making the strange calculus (based on nothing but a glimpse
of the rusted bolt, dark beneath the bumper) that'll determine the
"right" tool. The hurried bitterness of the shoppers is rubbing
my "humbug" nerve bad, real bad. For all their frowns, I'd like
to offer them the opportunity of changing my flat to give them much-needed
context, but I'm just being a wad. Just get it done. So I settle
on a monkey wrench (with a nice, red foam handle) and a pair of
channel locks. Alarms sound, lights flash and the robot voice of
the security system inform me, as I attempt egress, to return to
the cashier to deactivate the magnetic "theft prevention" device
on my "purchase". Being accused of shoplifting by a machine (in
league with my truck no doubt) was very close to the last thing
I needed to hear, I glower at the security camera so they get a
good look, and continue on my mission.
I lay flat on the black, cold,
gritty macadam, and drag myself under the truck. Staring into the
dark underbelly of the vehicle, my eyes adjusting, all the variables
that could conspire to defeat my plans pop to mind. What if the
spare's flat? What if my dandy new tools prove impotent? What if
I can't dislodge the rusted lug nuts? Whatever.with the mood I'm
in I might just grab a lighter and create a twin to the car-b-que
I witnessed this morning. It all goes pretty well, my shiny new
weapons vanquish the bolt, with a little cussin' and beating the
tire assembly swings free. I'm not sure when the design choice dealing
with auto jacks swung from "big and efficient" to "small and annoying",
but I longed for the day when you could jack your car in eight cranks.
The jack for my Ford Ranger Truck is approximately eight inches
high and requires approximately two thousand, four hundred thirty
turns to bring it into contact with the axle. It reminds me of the
product of Soviet era toy designers trying to develop a steel "rubics"
cube for the mentally challenged. I get rid of a few knuckles I
don't use that much anyway, and get it up. Changing a tire is a
one-man job, unless you're a NASCAR driver, you can't really be
"helped". But I need to point out that many of the wonderful people
with whom I work, offered what they could, and the simple moral
support warmed me more than my quickly chilling coffee. My partner,
Pierre, a man of island blood who feels about the cold the way I
feel about brussel sprouts, kept me company for as long as his ears
could take. And the wonderful Jenny, she of warm Panamanian blood,
offered me the similarly pointless scissor jack from her car. But
this was me, the metal, the cold and my own bad attitude and no
amount of kindness was gonna' put me in a good mood. I screwed,
I grunted, I spoke crude words. As soon as the lug nuts were loose,
I knew it was all over, nothing left but the almost Zen-like motions
of a simple mechanical task. One thing following the other till
that last, satisfying metal-on-metal squeak of the last lug snug
back home. And, of course, the six thousand, forty-two counter-revolutions
to flatten the jack.
As I drive into the night, I wish
I were heading to warm lips or children curious to hear the tale
of the "tire". But I'm glad I'm alive, that I have tomorrow to make
things happen and make such wishes real. And my wish to all of you
is that you find your fondest dreams, and when life seems like a
"flat" don't look around for help, fix it yourself (and value those
who offer you help) and know the strange comfort that life's indeed
what you make it.
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Kickin'
it on Wall Street
Werewolves
Male
Madness
Am
I in the Storm
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