I was driving on the same route I take to my full-time job Monday through Friday when I was assaulted by memories. It was so painful that I thought about filing charges, but the police would think I've lost my mind. I've driven that same stretch of highway so many times since Alberto left that I couldn't possibly count. The memory itself was probably triggered by the fact something appears to be wrong with my car yet again, big surprise, but the incident that came to mind is from about 7 years ago...
I was working 2nd shift at a company that owns a warehouse a few blocks away from where I work now. The company creates Point of Purchase signage for some of the larger national chains that are headquartered here in the frozen tundra. My department did the assembly and packaging of the final product. It was here that I began my training to become a master tape ninja and often fashioned special boxes on the spot for odd-shaped signs.
Anyway, the night in question I was on my way home at 2 am when I began to lose control of my car. I could tell that I had a flat tire despite the fact that I was a girl and knew next to nothing about the GM something-or-other that I owned. Instead of pulling over on the side of the highway to try and deal with it, I continued on for about a quarter of a mile to the next exit. I drove to the nearest gas station, a SuperAmerica, parked by the air hose and got out to assess the situation. By this time my driver’s side rear tire was completely destroyed; the rubber was bulging out in several places on the side wall due to the heat and friction created by driving on a flat. I was screwed because I know there was no way I could get the spare out of my trunk due to subwoofer resting on the tire well that required advanced Tetris skills to move. I did the only thing I could think of and called my boyfriend who was fast asleep less than a mile away.
Alberto answered on the second ring and immediately asked me what was wrong. I explained the situation and he told me he was on his way. My knight came riding to the rescue in a beat-up Ford whatever-it-was the color of dirt. He evaluated the state of the tire. When we considered the unavailability of a tire jack stuck as it was in the well with my spare (supposedly), it was decided we would add air to the tire and drive to his house. I drove as cautiously as a 90 year old great-grandmother with Alberto following me. We made it to the house before the tire went flat again. Back at the house we were unable to find the hydraulic jack Alberto had in the garage, so he offered to drive me home and we would deal with the tire at a more reasonable time of day. We slept for an hour because I was dead on my feet and then he took me home.
The next day we put the spare on my car and I drove to a mechanic by my house. They told me the tire couldn’t be fixed and the culprit was something they hadn’t seen before, a 3 inch long arrow shaft. According to the tire guy, the arrow was probably lying on the road when I ran it over and essentially launched it at my rear tire. I ended up buying a new tire. The moral of the story is; don’t run shit over, cars are expensive, and sleepy boyfriends smell sexy.
“Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.”
Groucho Marx
Ciao
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