ONE MORE TIME

ONE MORE TIME

 My husband’s mode of transportation (I am hesitant to refer to it as a car) continues to be a source of angst.  Though at times it masquerades as a dependable station wagon, we at the Shelly house know the truth.  At inconvenient and unpredictable intervals, the car just ceases to go.  This could happen just as Jim is starting out or perhaps after he has been driving for miles and miles.  It does not distinguish between the icy winter and the heat of summer.  There is no rhyme or reason (except the recent observance that when Jim dares to think to himself, “hmmmm, it has been some time since this car has left me stranded…” the car seems to read his mind and comply with expectations in short order.)

It has now been years with this same mystifying condition; a state which refuses to be diagnosed. When finally Jim’s frustration swells, my longsuffering spouse takes the maddening vehicle into the garage for repair.  The mechanics attempt to replicate the disorder.  But to no avail.  He took it again last month and they once again could find nothing awry.  Yet on his drive home from the garage, the beast (somehow affectionately called Lola by Jim and my magnanimous daughter) shut off once more.  

One might wonder why, on earth, such an intelligent man would not just push such a car over the nearest cliff.  Incomparable frugality is the only answer.  If his wife or child were driving the car and it left one of us sitting in the intersection, it would have been traded years ago.  But his prudence when the article only causes inconvenience to him is an unparalleled wonder.  The only silver lining in this annoying cloud of disrepair is that the car’s episodes are fairly predictable in resolution.  If one waits the appointed time (approximately 5 minutes) the car will start up with a grin, as though woken from a nap and refreshed for the next 200 or more miles.  And so with tolerance beyond my own, my husband sits and patiently waits for Lola to come to her senses.  I suspect that if I were the one repeatedly left stranded, there would be a great deal more fuming and kicking involved. 

And so it was, earlier this week, my husband phoned me from his office parking lot.  The car refused to budge and having persisted in his usual 12 or 13 hour workday, he was already late for supper.  He thought he might just wait a few minutes and then start it up and be on his way.  He did arrive home shortly thereafter and so I assumed things went as planned.  But apparently Lola had again refused to come home, so Jim caught a ride with a coworker.  Upon eating his slightly dried-out dinner, he casually mentioned that the gasoline indicator light was shining at him in the wee hours as he drove to work that morning.  To his credit, there truly aren’t any gas stations open at the ridiculous hour he begins his day, so he was unable to make a stop.  Thinking perhaps the car was out of gas, we poured a can of gas in her tank later that evening and he drove her home, naively assuming that gasoline was the problem.

Well last night the scenario was similar. Only this time Lola let Jim get far enough from the office to be marooned at a nearby intersection.  Predictably, dinner was past due once again.  While I was practicing my deep breathing, he was going to wait a little while and attempt to launch once more.  A second call had him sounding a bit more peeved and he refused my offer to come and pick him up.  He would decide what to do with his car (which was clogging the road) and call me back. 

When next we spoke, he was fairly winded.  This was the result of pushing and steering the annoying vehicle (by himself) to the driveway of the nearby Lowes.  And since Lola was now off the road (and he was exhausted from pushing hundreds of pounds in the heat and humidity) he agreed to a ride.

I arrived at the scene with an orange sign for the back of his car and a roll of scotch tape.  The sign explained that the car had died and would be removed from the driveway by morning.  Being a nurse, I am usually happy to be the rescuer, so despite the second dry supper of the week, I was in pretty good spirits.  In the meantime Jim had spoken to a man in the garage at work.  The man could not leave to attend the problem, but he did offer the use of a truck with which to tow the offending car back to the company garage.  Though we were pressed for time (an evening meeting) we dashed over to the garage to pick up the tow truck.

It was sort of a nice adventure, riding in the uncomfortably warm cab of a tow truck with my husband.  It was just a short distance, so I completely sanctioned this turn of events.  It was what Jim said as we got out of the tow truck that caused a red flag of alarm to rise in my otherwise agreeable demeanor. 

I should have noticed that the truck had no flatbed on which to place another vehicle.  If I were paying attention I might have noticed that there was not even a noticeable hook.  There was, however, a rather skimpy-looking flat rope which was apparently going to fasten between the truck and Lola.  I imagined a wayward dog on a leash, tugging against its owner and making wider turns than necessary….  Sweat was now breaking out on my previously dry forehead.  Jim informed me that I would be directing his car.  As in steering and braking.  “Do the brakes actually work when the car isn’t running?” I asked, foolishly.  Jim’s answer did nothing to cheer me.  Actually expecting me to have no trouble fairly STANDING on the breaks and yanking on the steering wheel while attempting NOT to hit the back of his company’s truck, he seemed not worried in the least.  “I’ll drive the tow truck”, I decided.  I did not want to be responsible for denting the back bumper of the tow truck.  “Well, it isn’t really easy to tow something either….and the truck does belong to the company…”  With a sense of impending doom and resignation, I climbed behind the wheel of Lola.  Jim directed me to turn the key until the red lights lit.  I tried one more time to start her up before embarking on the crazy rope-pulling expedition to the garage.  And she purred once again like a cat waking from her nap.  Stupid car. 

Against my suggestion that we drive her to the garage and LEAVE her there, Jim had already forgiven her trespasses and was happy to take her home with us. 

He is a patient and merciful man.  I know this because Lola and I have something in common.   I too am a recurring recipient of clemency.  I’d like to insist that Jim sell her disloyal carcass on EBay for parts; but forgiveness is a marvelous thing to watch and to receive.  Okay Lola.  One more time.