a warrior culture of military professionalism
SUN ADDLED
We are back from Mexico and what is this thing with straps? A “brassiere”? Is that French? And this stuff you call “snow.” I do not understand.
Nora in particular had a great time getting damp in three hot tubs, two pools, and one ocean. She became really proficient with this dumb ten-dollar snorkel set from Target. It had a safety orange tip so you could see her relentlessly circumnavigating the pool, burning off thousands of calories that she did not eat. She looked like one of those wind-up bathtub toys. She also visited some Mayan ruins, counted 56 iguanas, hurled a coconut into the sea,* and bought a shark-tooth necklace and a Mexican wrestler mask/cape combo that should be making a photographic appearance on this page one of these days.
*When Nora found a loose coconut on the ground she immediately asked, “Can I hurl it into the sea?” Yes you may. Despite the lateness of the hour we took a special trip down to the beach for the hurling of the coconut.
Every day since returning from vacation we have had a ten-minute wrestling session (with Nora costumed, of course) before dinner and you know, it has made all the evening routines much smoother and more pleasant. Maybe I can write a cheesy parenting book and make some money. Trouble with transitions, tantrums, meltdowns? Take ten minutes to fake-bodyslam your kid and let him/her push you over, with or without props, but definitely with grunting and big hammy overacting. This is apparently the secret of a happy seven-year-old.
AUTO RESCU[E] COULD USE SOME RESCUING
However, the adventure did not end upon returning to the USA! Tuesday was business as usual, slathering lotion on our salt/sun/chlorine-dried skin and hurrying to the city bus, but Wednesday I was able to work from home and so had planned to drive Nora to school. Which of course means a more leisurely morning—she read a whole Littles book with breakfast* before we ambled over to the garage and the car that had not been touched in about 10 days. Hmm, the trunk is open, I noted. How odd.
*Speaking of odd, why are there TWO series of kid books about tiny humanoids who live in the walls of houses? Were the Littles and the Borrowers both necessary? Weird.
There is a light in the trunk, did you know that? And that light being on continuously is apparently enough to drain the battery. Dead car. Nearly tardy child, her academic future surely bound for ruination. Dentist appointment later in the day that I now had no way of getting to, which secretly is not that much of a boo-hoo but still, my teeth needed cleaning.
Nora and I locked up the garage and sprinted down the block, where we were lucky enough to hail a cab. I got to fulfill my lifelong dream of telling a cabdriver that his tip would depend on his speed. So he drove like a man who firmly believed in an afterlife, and Nora miraculously was not even late. I took the bus back home and called the “roadside assistance” from my cell phone on the way.
The “assistance” that showed up was kind of sad-ass and possibly in need of assistance itself. It was just a guy in a rusted-out Jeep, who threw on a fluorescent jacket labeled “AUTO RESCU” and used a battery pack to jump my car. I was not sure if the “e” in “rescue” had flaked off, was missing due to ignorance, or had been purposely omitted (leave the E off for…Economic Distress? Ennui? Elephantiasis?)
Anyway, this was “Frank,” who was here to “rescu” my car. He did something arcane with the battery pack and it started, and he told me to leave it running for fifteen minutes or so in the closed garage. Note: he specifically said “the closed garage.” I thought it was rather irresponsible of him not to mention that only the running car, and not my person, should hang out in the closed garage. But maybe he assumed I could figure that out.
I followed Frank back to his crappy car to sign the paperwork, and he seemed to be talking to someone I couldn’t see in the back seat—he said, “You okay in there? You want a blanket?” Then he said, “My girlfriend’s trying to sleep in the back seat.”
Me: Oh.
Frank: Yeah, she’s pregnant. You know, you’re supposed to be nice to pregnant ladies! But she’s gotta go with me driving all over town jumping cars.
Me [experiencing complicated emotions at this point; it does sound like a rough circumstance but it is your job and I had no part in impregnating your girlfriend]: Hmmmm.
Frank: Yeah, at least it’s not too cold today, you know? We’re kind of in between apartments right now, but we’re going to go see something this afternoon.
Me [wondering if I somehow walked into a short story by Raymond Carver]: Sounds good. Well, good luck!
Frank: You too.
Disquieting personal situations aside, I think that “roadside assistance” just paid for itself. And never, except perhaps when the neighborhood crackhead called me a retard, have I been so glad to live in an urban area. All that cab and bus business would not have worked out in the suburbs, unless I had good close neighbors who could have given us a ride.
Let’s all hold a good thought for Frank, his housing situation, and his (I assume?) future child!
—mimi smartypants jump-started your heart.