When you’ve had a girlfriend and an ex-girlfriend die a span of 5 years, you get a little paranoid. It’s not a matter of if it happens again but when. We all die eventually. So even though it may not happen now or 10 to 20 years from now, it will happen. But who will be first? Will it be me or my partner?
Jacks might inherit her mother’s breast cancer. The next cigarette could lead to an early
heart attack? Or a random chunk of blue ice could fall from a passenger plane, killing her instantaneously. Maybe she’ll be electrocuted during a house repair project or choke to death at the dinner table. The cat could trip her on the stairs.
This past weekend I was out of town for my 3 day work week. I felt that impending
doom, worried that she might already be lying dead in a ditch somewhere. All because it was 10pm and I had not heard from her since 11am. I couldn’t remember if she was headed Up North for a visit or if she was supposed to be working.
I left her a voice mail. Texted her. Nothing. I tried to calm myself. Maybe she didn’t have very good cell phone service Up North. Maybe she was busy at work and couldn’t call me back. Maybe she went out for a pack of cigarettes and was never coming back. Earlier that day I had noticed that she had disappeared off my Facebook page. I was no longer in a relationship with Jacks, according to Facebook. If she was really dead, there was nothing I could do about it anyway. I told myself to just go to sleep. I took a Benadryl and proceeded to toss and turn. I texted her brother. He hadn’t heard from her either. .
My phone vibrated at 10:30 with a message from Jacks. Her phone was almost dead and she didn’t have her charger. She would be home soon, and she loved me. I was relieved but still wide awake. I wouldn’t be satisfied until I heard her voice from the safety of our home.
15 minutes later, she called me but not from home. She was at exit 90. She needed the number for a tow truck. She had been driving 70mph down the freeway when her tire flew off and her truck hit the cement, sparks flying. The truck stopped inches from the guard rail.
The guys at Tuffy said the lug nuts were sheered off perfectly like someone had cut them off. Rather suspicious. A couple days earlier we had noticed that the top right hand corner of her license plate had been cut out. Some fucker must have used a tin snips to steal her tag. She only makes $9.00/hr. Seriously, if you can’t afford your own tag, ride the bus! She drives a rusty 1991 Chevy S-10. Why couldn’t they have gone to the rich neighborhood? Why not a BMW or a Lexus?
Tuffy said the truck should have flipped over and veered into on-coming traffic. Those feelings of impending doom were not unwarranted. Jacks said she had similar feelings.
The tag and the tire are both replaceable—Jacks, not so much.
Showing posts with label car trouble. Show all posts
Showing posts with label car trouble. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Following Directons
Jacks was driving us to Holland. We had to pick up Judah from the dog-sitter. Jacks always says Holland’s not on her map. She says this because she’s from Up North, and until recently none of these places existed in her mind. Anyway she couldn’t remember how to get back Rachel’s house. So I called Rachel and she gave me her street address. I scribbled it on a scrap of paper.
“Okay,” I said and hung up the phone.
“So where’s it at?” Jacks asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
I looked at the address laying in my lap.
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“Didn’t you grow up here?” she asked
“Well, yeah . . . .But”
When I was 15, I didn’t really care whether I learned how to drive or not. It seemed like too much of a bother. Really I was scared shitless. It was much safer to have Mom cart me all over town to all my extra-curricular activities. There’s so much a person had to pay attention to while they were driving—lights, signs, pedestrians, other vehicles. I’ve never been the most mechanically inclined even with the simple things. I still prefer not to drive. I’m content to be the anxious but mostly oblivious passenger.
On my 16th birthday, I was not waiting in line at the DMV with a learner’s permit in hand. I was in New Buffalo setting up camp for the Shoreline Bike Tour. 360 miles in 1 week—on a bicycle, not a motorcycle. This only bought me another week of blissful ignorance. Needless to say I got my license--forced would be a better word. My parents wanted to retire from the taxi business.
My first car was a 1985 Chrysler New Yorker. It talked in this gentle manly voice. Your lights are on. Don’t forget your keys. It had turbo boost —not like Night Rider. It just had a label on the dashboard that said Turbo Boost. Maybe because it was a 8 cylinder.
It must have been my first winter driving. I was on the highway, driving home from church when my windshield clouded over with frost. I didn’t understand. Warm air was blowing through the vents like it should have been. I had cranked it up to the last number. This was bad. Instead of a clear windshield, everything was white. I tried to clear a hole with my warm hand. I slowed the car down to 40mph, then 35mph, then 30mph, trying to drive in a straight line--trying not to plunge into the deep ditch--until I could manage to pull into a parking lot. I shaved off the thin layer of ice from inside the windshield. Some pieces curled. The rest made flakes. It had snowed on my dashboard. I attempted to make my way home again.
Only it didn’t take long before the windshield iced over again. I scraped with my finger nails and pushed my warm palm into it. I drove slowly making an effort to stay on my side of the yellow line. I did this until I pulled into the driveway of a high school friend. By that time I was crying. She wasn’t home, but her dad was working in the garage.
I rolled down the window and blubbered. He looked at the window and peeked in.
“Did you try the defrost button?”
“The what?”
“The button that says defrost.”
I pressed the button that he indicated. Miraculously, the ice melted.
For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been having computer issues. I know it’s despicable that I own a Dell and not a Mac. But I don’t have that kind of money and this was a gift. The previous laptop (also not a Mac) fried. Anyway, my laptop wouldn’t connect to the wireless network. Jack’s laptop connected just fine, and I was able to directly connect. So it didn’t seem to be a network issue. It had been so strange. I had been on the internet when it had mysteriously disconnected. I tried to repair the connection, but I couldn’t even view wireless networks. The little Blue Tooth icon was no longer blue.
I tried the Dell chat room first. I chatted from the desktop computer while trying to follow the tech guy’s specific instructions.
Dell tech guy: You’re wrong. That’s not the problem at all.
I hadn’t even fully explained the problem.
Dell tech guy: What does it say when you try to connect?
Myself: There are no networks available to connect to.
He was obviously exasperated with me and instructed me to connect directly to the internet. He would look for himself.
Myself: How is that going to work? If I do that, I’ll lose the chat session.
Then he wrote something about if I would just follow his instructions. Finally I told him that I would deal with it later and closed the chat room.
On my second attempt, I called Dell’s 1-800 #. I gave them my service # and product # and explained the problem. Then they transferred me. Each time I gave my info and problem, they transferred me--3 times. I’m sorry ma’am you’ve been transferred to the wrong department. Each person had a thick Indian accent, and I felt ridiculous when I asked them to repeat the information. The phrase Wireless Network sounds quite different depending on the accent.
Eventually, I was transferred to the right department. Or maybe the guy on the other end felt sorry for the dimwitted American.
“What’s the name of your computer?”
I hadn’t realized my computer had a name. It was a Dell.
“Check the upper left hand corner, Ma’am.”
And there it was just as he described, printed nicely in English letters: Dell Precision M4300.
He talked me through the different screens, the Network connections, The Control Panel. Everything seemed to be working.
“Hit your internet button,” the man instructed.
“Internet button?”
My old computer had a nicely displayed internet button, clearly marked with a diagram on the top right hand side of the keyboard.
“It should be on the left side of the computer,” he said.
I looked on the side. There was a slide button. I had seen it there before, but hadn’t known what it was for. I wasn’t using it, so it didn’t concern me.
I slid the button over.
Miraculously, I was connected to internet.
“Okay,” I said and hung up the phone.
“So where’s it at?” Jacks asked.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
I looked at the address laying in my lap.
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“Didn’t you grow up here?” she asked
“Well, yeah . . . .But”
When I was 15, I didn’t really care whether I learned how to drive or not. It seemed like too much of a bother. Really I was scared shitless. It was much safer to have Mom cart me all over town to all my extra-curricular activities. There’s so much a person had to pay attention to while they were driving—lights, signs, pedestrians, other vehicles. I’ve never been the most mechanically inclined even with the simple things. I still prefer not to drive. I’m content to be the anxious but mostly oblivious passenger.
On my 16th birthday, I was not waiting in line at the DMV with a learner’s permit in hand. I was in New Buffalo setting up camp for the Shoreline Bike Tour. 360 miles in 1 week—on a bicycle, not a motorcycle. This only bought me another week of blissful ignorance. Needless to say I got my license--forced would be a better word. My parents wanted to retire from the taxi business.
My first car was a 1985 Chrysler New Yorker. It talked in this gentle manly voice. Your lights are on. Don’t forget your keys. It had turbo boost —not like Night Rider. It just had a label on the dashboard that said Turbo Boost. Maybe because it was a 8 cylinder.
It must have been my first winter driving. I was on the highway, driving home from church when my windshield clouded over with frost. I didn’t understand. Warm air was blowing through the vents like it should have been. I had cranked it up to the last number. This was bad. Instead of a clear windshield, everything was white. I tried to clear a hole with my warm hand. I slowed the car down to 40mph, then 35mph, then 30mph, trying to drive in a straight line--trying not to plunge into the deep ditch--until I could manage to pull into a parking lot. I shaved off the thin layer of ice from inside the windshield. Some pieces curled. The rest made flakes. It had snowed on my dashboard. I attempted to make my way home again.
Only it didn’t take long before the windshield iced over again. I scraped with my finger nails and pushed my warm palm into it. I drove slowly making an effort to stay on my side of the yellow line. I did this until I pulled into the driveway of a high school friend. By that time I was crying. She wasn’t home, but her dad was working in the garage.
I rolled down the window and blubbered. He looked at the window and peeked in.
“Did you try the defrost button?”
“The what?”
“The button that says defrost.”
I pressed the button that he indicated. Miraculously, the ice melted.
For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been having computer issues. I know it’s despicable that I own a Dell and not a Mac. But I don’t have that kind of money and this was a gift. The previous laptop (also not a Mac) fried. Anyway, my laptop wouldn’t connect to the wireless network. Jack’s laptop connected just fine, and I was able to directly connect. So it didn’t seem to be a network issue. It had been so strange. I had been on the internet when it had mysteriously disconnected. I tried to repair the connection, but I couldn’t even view wireless networks. The little Blue Tooth icon was no longer blue.
I tried the Dell chat room first. I chatted from the desktop computer while trying to follow the tech guy’s specific instructions.
Dell tech guy: You’re wrong. That’s not the problem at all.
I hadn’t even fully explained the problem.
Dell tech guy: What does it say when you try to connect?
Myself: There are no networks available to connect to.
He was obviously exasperated with me and instructed me to connect directly to the internet. He would look for himself.
Myself: How is that going to work? If I do that, I’ll lose the chat session.
Then he wrote something about if I would just follow his instructions. Finally I told him that I would deal with it later and closed the chat room.
On my second attempt, I called Dell’s 1-800 #. I gave them my service # and product # and explained the problem. Then they transferred me. Each time I gave my info and problem, they transferred me--3 times. I’m sorry ma’am you’ve been transferred to the wrong department. Each person had a thick Indian accent, and I felt ridiculous when I asked them to repeat the information. The phrase Wireless Network sounds quite different depending on the accent.
Eventually, I was transferred to the right department. Or maybe the guy on the other end felt sorry for the dimwitted American.
“What’s the name of your computer?”
I hadn’t realized my computer had a name. It was a Dell.
“Check the upper left hand corner, Ma’am.”
And there it was just as he described, printed nicely in English letters: Dell Precision M4300.
He talked me through the different screens, the Network connections, The Control Panel. Everything seemed to be working.
“Hit your internet button,” the man instructed.
“Internet button?”
My old computer had a nicely displayed internet button, clearly marked with a diagram on the top right hand side of the keyboard.
“It should be on the left side of the computer,” he said.
I looked on the side. There was a slide button. I had seen it there before, but hadn’t known what it was for. I wasn’t using it, so it didn’t concern me.
I slid the button over.
Miraculously, I was connected to internet.
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