On a day like today, the adjective I use most often will usually be "sweaty".
But let's backtrack, recap and understand the week thus far.
Monday: Labor Day.
I don't want to grill hamburgers and hot dogs anymore. When I go swimming, I'm embarrassed -- not of my lack of Olympic potential, but the whiteness that purvades my torso and down my shoulders just above my elbows. This, the grandest of all holidays in September, was just an obstacle to the things I hoped to accomplish. Namely, getting a job.
Tuesday and Wednesday: Frances.
Garth Brooks once reminded us that "the thunder rolls". How true. And the rain falls and the wind blows and the trees come tumbling down. On Tuesday and most of Wednesday, electricity and various other utilities took a vacation. Again, I was not able to accomplish all I'd hoped. Or any of it if you exclude taking a shower, which became necessary when I was told I couldn't.
Thursday: the death of a Corolla.
The car I've been driving since I surrendered my 2001 Nissan Frontier King Cab XE (75,000 mile warranty, mind you) died. More like it refused to wake up. It slept all day and therefore, I brewed a pot of cabin fever. Worse, I became addicted to myspace in the meantime, checking every ten seconds to see if anyone would fucking comment on the previous one hundred blogs I'd entered. And though everyone and their momma says they read these damn things, no one would fucking say a word except Becky, of course. Moving on... that night my backup, the Big Body Buick Century Wagon (maroon and tasty), died. It died. The alternator, that is.
Bringing us to Friday.
To solve the problem with the Buick -- a problem manifest after midnight and met around 2am -- I chose to pick up a battery at Walmart. It was a band-aid because, as mentioned earlier, the problem was the alternator. But it'd get the Big Body back home.
So my first episode in today's series of adventures was to have the alternator tested at Auto Zone and then, if needed, buy one. That's what I did, but there were other chores to abide.
The insurance man needed a visit and then I got some lunch -- maybe ill-advised considering the situation but I wanted a Waffle House fix. From there, I hit I-75 North and said hello to Forsyth, the darling of Monroe County. However, my intended purpose wouldn't be met as the new battery had enough of my shit and to prove its point, croaked. Fortunately, I found a gas station where it could rot and soon, I found my brother who'd come jump me off.
It was the first in a series of five total attempts to get home via jumper cables.
We let the battery charge there at the gas station while we talked over the finer points of art history and wine tasting. At a point we deemed suitable, we disengaged and I headed like a bat out of hell down highway 18. My rocketship like ride carried me less than half way home, and again, I was stranded.
Only this time. This time it was in the middle of the road on a two-lane with ignorant bastards flying around me and honking as if I chose to get a tan at that very spot.
Figuring my cell phone to be out of range, I began knocking on doors. No sweat, I've been an outside salesman. I've knocked on many doors.
Well, when you're sweaty, greasy and gross, folks tend to look at you like you're going to rape them with the broken end of pine branch. Hell, I'm not black and I'm not hispanic so why all the fuss? And I thought only racists lived out there. No, they're all just cold-hearted dirty sons of bitches.
That, I say, because with my car in the middle of the road and no one answering my pleas, I stood behind the wagon and waved both arms above my head. Finally and probably because I kept stepping in front of his car as he tried to navigate around, an old man stopped.
"Sir, do you have a set of jumper cables?"
"No I don't but I'd be glad to help you get out of the road."
I had that going for me, which was nice. He helped me move it out of harm's immediate way and desparate, I turned on my cell phone. It worked and I felt like an ass not going that route earlier.
"Jeff, dude, I'm stuck on 18."
We've grown closer this week. Good thing too because I've needed his help, no doubt. Fifty years ago, I wouldn't have. There'd have been a thousand people lining up to help me with my car problems, and after I offered to repay their kindness, they'd have made me cherry pie. That's why we need cell phones and families these days.
When my little brother arrived, we repeated the scene at the gas station. I hopped in and hauled ass, just to have it die again.
Rinse and repeat as necessary.
Third time, and again it died.
Fourth time, and the same.
Fifth time, we agreed that my bad luck with cars was getting in the way so Jeff drove the Buick and I got behind the wheel of the Nissan.
Guess what. He got it home without it dying and then he left. Juliet called and we ate at Shoney's. I avoided a shouting match in America's Place to Eat by remembering who I was with. Came home and watched the end of the FSU-Miami game. Fifteen minutes ago, I realized Jeff came back and already changed the alternator out.
How sweet of him!
I could have gone out. Damn.
And tomorrow, if all goes well, I'll be drunk well before midnight and will not have to drive anywhere nor will I need to sleep on a trampoline.
And that'll be nice.
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