There are days – you’ve had them too – when everything clicks with the precision and ease of a Swiss watch.
There are other days when has the old Timex not only stopped, the face popped off and the guts flew out at your feet.
It was the latter kind of day described above that awaited me as I hustled out the door to go to my Saturday afternoon guitar jam today, my one big social event of the week where I actually interact with human beings who don’t describe me as “my dad” or “yes, that’s my husband.”
“Why are you leaving so early?” asked my wife at 12:30.
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“It starts at one o’clock and I am never on time. I want to start the new year off right.” I usually burst into the studio with a flourish about an hour after the music has started. I think this annoys some of my otherwise even-tempered and sweet-sounding pals.
“Take the good car,” yelled my wife, as I was leaving the kitchen.
If you have one car that is described as the good car, that can only mean that the other one is the bad car.
“Nope,” I yelled back. The Pontiac needs a good run. It hasn’t moved in a week.
Out to the bad car I went, loaded up my guitar, and looked down to see a mostly flat front tire. That was not going to put me off. I drove to the local gas station in the pouring rain and breathed some life into that poor ancient piece of rubber. I empathize with things that are poor and ancient.
Finally, off I went, sucking on a can of pop and practising a song out loud I planned to dazzle my buddies and our audience with.
A few miles out of town, I looked at the heat gauge to see two sets of warning lights flashing and dial indicating the coolant was warmer than a rich man’s hot tub. This had happened before. The car’s manual says to shut the car off right away as it could burst into flames. I didn’t do that, instead driving a few more miles to a gas station in a small village. I killed the engine and sat there waiting for the firetrap to cool off. At least I was not sitting in a inferno.
I was discouraged. Bad cars can make a man discouraged from time to time.
As I sat there contemplating the unfairness of life, the right lens popped out of my eyeglasses and fell on the floor. I had no way of repairing them. The next few hours I did my best Cyclops impersonation, driving the highway and banging away at the jam while only partially sighted. Driving partially sighted is against the terms of the agreement between me and the Ministry of Transportation.
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I finally opened the hood and dumped half the big can of coolant I bought at the gas station for $18.35 into the plastic container designed for that purpose. That container and the rest of the car are 23 years old this year. I still don’t think of it as a bad car, however. My son is 23 till March and my daughter will be 23 in December and I don’t hate them.
I will come right out and say it. I like the bad car.
Most of the time.
In the midst of all this, I failed to mention that when I left home, whatever day that was, nature was calling. I didn’t pick up. One overheating car and a set of broken eyeglasses later, nature was yelling at me. Abusively.
I would soon get a chance to shut nature up.
A few miles down the road, the heat gauge was screaming again and I had to pull off onto a deserted gravel road. Another long wait to let things cool down. Another big gulp of antifreeze. And a few minutes to stuff a big sock in nature’s belligerent mouth.
By the time I reached the town where the jam is held, the heat gauge was in full protest mode again, and pretty lights were flashing on my dash. I parked and burst into the studio, still partially sighted, at 2:30 p.m., a full 90 minutes late, and facing a room full of, I imagined, canky music makers.
I wish I had taken the good car.
©2020 Jim Hagarty
