Hmm..

I’ve got way more e-mail than I can deal with. So quit complaining about not getting anything personal, and
I’ll try to remember to add you to my mailing list.

Right.

Today. Hmm… Today. I’m beginning to think my moniker is correct. Especially with cars. No, I don’t get vomitted out onto beaches by sedans with stomachaches. I just seem to bring bad luck to vehicles. Like the dead battery day before last?

I was running a bit later than usual this morning after printing some stuff out and taking (too much) time to read e-mail from the night before. So I grabbed a piece of bread and the last can of grapefruit juice and trotted out to the car, revved it up and took off down the road. Only my car is running a little rough and keeps making this WOMP WOMP WOMP noise. “That,” I thought, rather astutely, “Sounds just like that time I had a flat tire.” Stopping the car and running around to the other side, fears were confirmed. The front passenger side tire was as flat as Kansas. I pulled off out of the road and onto the grass on the side of the street and walked back a couple of doors to the house where I’m staying with my bread and juice in hand.

I called AAA and got an estimate of 15 to 50 minutes before a truck would show up to change my flat. Then I called my employer and explained the situation to him. He suggested getting it fixed at a place down the road on the way to his house. I hung up and told Joanne, the female half of the Wallaces with whom I am staying, “I have a flat.””Oh!” she exclaimed, “Well, let’s see, let’s see. You can take my car, and I’ll take the Suburban; I’m getting ready for this big thing we have tonight, and I’d usually be gone by now, but if you take my car, I’ll stay here–I don’t have to leave for a while–till they come to fix it, or you and Doug could go get a used tire, or…” I stood quietly till she paused and then calmly explained what I was going to do. “Oh,” she answered and then added, “You don’t get flustered easily, do you?” I smiled, “No, not really.”

I sipped at the grapefruit juice while sitting on top of my hood, waiting for the truck to arrive. It was warm; the sun was out. Thursday seemed to be lawn care day. The neighborhood I’m living in is fairly nice. No one seems to dotheir own yard work. Trucks were scattered around the neighborhood with workers mowing lawns. I sipped some more juice and read chapter 2 of the book by Dorothy Sayers I’d been assigned to read. “Excuse me,” came a voice from the house I was parked in front of, “Excuse me, what are you doing there?” A woman stood in the doorway, an expression of annoyed suspicion on her face. I gestured toward my tire, “Got a flat.” “Oh!” her expression changed to surprised compassion, “Do you need to call anyone…?” I shook my head, “Got someone on the way.”

It got warmer, so I took shelter in my car with the windows down. The yard workers got closer. Evidently they did most of the yards in the neighborhood. Soon lawn mowers were cutting the grass right near where I was stranded. I looked up from my book to see one of the older guys in glasses and a black tank shirt at my window. “Is there any way you could put your car into neutral and let us push you out of the way?” he asked. “Got a flat,” I answered. “Is that all? Well, $#!%, we can take care of that!” he exclaimed, “Got a spare and jack?” I assented. “I’ll get the boys.”

It turned out that, though I did have a spare in my trunk, the jack was missing. I don’t know where it went. It used to be back there. Maybe someone swiped my jack, replacing it with the can of soup that I really can’t explain the presence of. But the yard people had an air compressor that plugs into a cigarette lighter. A big fellow with a beard and blond pony tail stuck around till it filled my tire up. The leak was slow enough to let the tire hold air for awhile. I thanked him and drove off, waving at Tank Top on the way.

The people at the auto place were nice. I sat around staring at car magazines and wall charts of axles for about 15 minutes. Then a fellow came in and plopped a bent, headless nail on the counter. “That’ll be six bucks.”

Tire’s still full tonight.

In other news, all the paid employees of Mars Hill gathered in the Myer house to watch Dr. Strange Love. Or Dr. Strangelove. That is one weird film. Made by the same guy who directed The Shining, 2001, Clockwork Orange, and Full Metal Jacket. He also took over direction of Sparticus. Peter Sellers is magnificent as the title character. And two others.

“Just remember… If you don’t reach the President, you’ll have to answer to the CocaCola Company.”