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When you play, you pay.
I don't disguise my dislike for the day where I have to pack up and do the Migrant Worker deal. By this, I mean Monday. And it's already Tuesday. I try to be cool... efficient. Leisurely, even. The appointed hour draws nigh, car's loaded, and I think (being oh-so responsible) "Good time to check the oil." It's been a couple of weeks, but the Volvo doesn't send up bluish smoke contrails, nor upchuck its tarry innards on the driveway. A good dog. The babushka of transportation. Reach through the driver's window, pop the release and walk around to the front. Pop the latch, and... TWANNG! The whole hood takes a lazy, sickening lurch to the left... like that feeling your get when your legs buckle when you get up too fast. Still attached to the earth, but barely. Nauseating. Especially when it registers that the hinge has just given it up. I'm reminded of A Christmas Story... you know, the holiday film about Ralphie, the "you'll shoot your eye out" kid. Darren McGavin's finest hour, anyway, as his dialogue was peppered with unintelligible, mumbled curses throughout (Popeye did the same thing, but I was too young to figure it out). At some point, it was mused that "Dad" "weaved a tapestry of curses that is still floating somewhere over Lake Michigan." Or something like that. And so it was. I'm sure the barrage of "fucks" rattled windows, made children cry, and if there were any nearby, caused elephants to stampede. Yes, I was somewhat discouraged. But a wave of calm did rise over me, and it was good. Didn't really want to go to work anyway, did I? But, with eventual vacation in mind, I elected to do the right thing, and get there... eventually. Time to play ghoul in the auto boneyard, or I'm not going anywhere. Johnny Law just loves improper equipment, 'round heah. I grew up across the road from this junkyard. It's a cracker. A Pick Your Own salvage yard. I could spend all day in a place like this (I could spend all day in the Hirschhorn or the National Gallery East Wing, as well)... every wreck tells a story. Some have gone gentle into that good night, evidence of a peaceful existence strewn in, around, and under... some are pretzeled remains, where the verdict was stark, abrupt and final. Sobering, and intriguing. Anyway, no ticks, bees or bloody knuckles. Back up the hill to the "office", hinge and spring in hand... for a Virginia version of haggling at the Market Tent in ancient Fez. A trailer, really, stuffed with chubby boys, strewn auto giblets, and the cash register (if someone farted, it would have blown the doors and windows out). Especially entertaining when the fetching little blonde Gal Friday strolls in with lunch... you coulda heard a pin drop. Ol' boys never seen nothin' quite so purty... yet nary a smart comment, and a path immediately opened up amongst the beef. Southern ettiquette, scrapyard-style. It happens. Back in my computer veal fatting pen, only two hours late. Uneventful repair, the usual chain-smoking sail on the asphalt sea to get here. Just when I'm thinking, "interesting day," I'm informed that Jim's house (where I bunk overnight), will be overrun with 8-12 year-olds when I get in at 2AM. It's a Stuck Mojo day. |
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