Each day of existence marks out another step in the incredible journey that
describes our human lives. Some days are akin to a picnic in the park. Others,
like the one I had a couple of days ago, are like an excruciating voyage
through the lowest ring of Hades.
I’ve been working very hard the last two years on a program to introduce a
major new product line into our factory. I originally asked to be assigned to
this project, since I knew it would be mentally and professionally
challenging. Nearing retirement, I wanted an opportunity for a final
shot of glory -- a rousing swan song, so to speak. Now we are getting
very close to our scheduled production campaign, finally arriving at a
critical milestone: We needed to put a small quantity of simulated product
down our fabrication lines to check out all our new procedures, processes,
equipment, computer control software, and other manufacturing systems.
This did not go very well. After 16 hours of fighting bugs and problems, we
were all exhausted, discouraged and just about brain-dead. My boss was quite
upset with the way things went, and his boss was clearly disappointed.
It was close to midnight. After wrapping up our notes on "what went wrong", we
all headed home to grab some rest before re-engaging in the battle the next
morning.
I limped out of the plant. My feet were no longer merely killing me; they
had accomplished that task hours earlier. Now it felt as if they were jumping
up and down on my flayed corpse. All I wanted was to be home where I could put
them up. As I unlocked the door of my pickup in the parking lot, I had one of
those dark thoughts that felt too disturbingly like a premonition: If ever
there were a worst time for the damned truck to break down, it would be
tonight.
This pickup has caused me a whale of grief in the last few years. I only
keep it because it does come in handy for hauling stuff to the dump and moving
dirt around my place. Our factory is out in the sticks. My home is way
the hell out further out past that. There are miles of dark country roads
betwixt the two. After motoring past half of those miles, my rear right tire
decided it had fallen out of love with its tread, and proceeded to divorce it
in the most spectacular way imaginable.
I suppose there’s an unrepentant optimist out there somewhere who could
paint this event with a cheerful color. Certainly, the effect of the tire
destroying itself kept me from falling asleep at the wheel. I guess I could be
grateful for that. Stopped and idling by the side of the road, I mashed the
emergency brake, hit the emergency flasher and got out. Standing there,
dog-tired, in the absolute hot and dark stickiness of a mosquito-filled South
Carolina summer night, I visualized our single family cell phone. The one that
was nested pleasantly in its charger at home.
I was the last person in North America to buy a cell phone. I don’t have
documented evidence for that, but I believe it to be true. Somewhere in
Taiwan, I’m convinced a cell phone factory shut down because I single-handedly
ended their reason for existence. I bought the thing a few months ago, mainly
for Chris to carry with her and for us to take on long trips together. Neither
one of us has ever used it. The poor little guy sits alone in the downstairs
bathroom, all plugged in and ready to go. It chirps pleasantly once in awhile,
to remind us of its potential value and willingness to serve. I could hear its
happy little chirping in my mind’s ear, joining in with the mad fiddling of
the cicadas which surrounded me in the darkness.
There was nothing for it, but to change the tire. Incredibly, the
flashlight in my glove compartment was working. (I vowed to write a
testimonial to the battery manufacturer later.) In pickups, the spare resides
in a carriage under the truck bed. This particular spare had sat patiently in
his cradle for 11 years, against this particular day of misfortune – and
holding his breath all that time! But that also meant 11 years’ worth of
accumulating rust and grime on the retaining eyebolt that held him there.
Lying prone underneath the truck, I pulled for all I was worth -- not much by
then -- on the lug wrench through its eye, to turn it. I counted the
hard-fought half-turns of that screw thread until I lost count and damned near lost
consciousness. The dirt sifting from the underside of the truck mixed with the
sweat pouring from my face, forming an interesting -- but disgusting
nonetheless -- amalgam of filth. After a seeming century of wrenching, the
eyebolt fell free and the spare was released to work its magic.
I had reached brain-death hours previously, and my encephalographic
trace was even flatter after I had spent my last precious molecule of
glucose suffering this literally wrenching ordeal. I engaged the lug
wrench sequentially on the wheel lugs, stood on it and broke the tightening
torque free using a strange spiritual energy emanating from an internal
organ I never knew existed. I laid back down in the road and positioned the
jack under the axle -- trying all the while to keep the flashlight from
rolling away -- and jacked up the wheel. Freeing it from the ground, I
suddenly realized that I had jacked up the rear right wheel, instead of the
rear left one that held the destroyed tire. I laid there in the dark road and
wept for a long time.
I honestly can’t remember most of the details of what followed. Somehow I
got the bad tire changed. I do remember dropping the flashlight once and
groping in the darkness to find the separated pieces to assemble it back
together. By that time, I had contributed several pints of blood to the local
Mosquitoes’ Benevolence Society. My clothes were soiled too badly to put
anywhere except inside a burning 55-gallon drum. My face, hands and arms were
black with dirt. I was drenched with perspiration. I had reached the
zombie zone. I vaguely recollect shambling into the house and
collapsing in a chair. Christine took one look at me and said, "Oooh, bad day,
huh?"
A bad day. Yes, that, indeed.
