Drunk Angel
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| (This photo really has nothing to do with this post, except that, with this outfit and his adorable face, I kind of think Bee looks like the title character). (And, yes, he wore that outfit out of the house) |
That's practically ancient in today's technologically-minded world.
Our troubles truly began last month, when our family piled into the car to travel to the home of the ex-parents-in-law-by-marriage . . . and the car wouldn't start. Bee quickly determined that the problem was a bad battery, and went to our local Auto Zone the next day for a new one. Problem solved.
Except not.
Last Saturday, Mr. C and I headed out to meet Bee at his booth at the downtown farmer's market. Since it's a popular activity, there's very little free parking in the area. However, I knew where Bee had parked his truck five blocks away, so I decided to double-park, pull his truck out of his parking space, park my car there, then drive his truck over to him, since it was nearly time for him to load up anyway.
I was thrilled to death with my brilliant plan, and it went along swimmingly . . . until I went to restart my double-parked car and pull it into the recently-vacated space, and the car was dead.
I am proud to report that I didn't panic. I wasn't blocking traffic, I knew Bee would eventually find me there, and, anyway, I was fairly certain someone would happen past, notice me looking piteous whilst my child danced around the parking lot, and would kindly offer their help. As I've mentioned before, having car trouble in public is one of the times when it's nice to be a woman: people are more likely to stop and help a damsel than a man.
It did take a few minutes for me to get help; I had to get good and sweaty (and shaky) trying to push the dead car into the vacant space (which was on a slight incline, naturally) before two rent-a-cops happened past and offered to help me push, then went to get their jumper cables. While I was waiting for them to return, three homeless-looking (not to stereotype) gentlemen and their dog meandered over; one of them (not the dog) introduced himself as a 25-year ex-mechanic for the Marines, then busied himself prying open the battery top and checking for fluid. He immediately determined the battery cells were dry (stupid brand-new battery), so he poured some of his bottled water into them. Then the rent-a-cops returned and jump-started the car, I thanked them all profusely (although I suspected the homeless guys would have preferred something a little more useful than gratitude), and the car didn't give us any more trouble.
Until that night.
Which was when Bee packed it full of drums to play a gig downtown and tried to start it . . . and the car was dead. Which, as I'm now learning, was our own fault, as the jump start really should have been a one-time-only solution, and the battery still needed to be charged. Who knew?
Well, apparently, tons of folks know that; and now I do, too. (Lucky me!)
On Sunday morning, we charged the battery. And everything worked dashingly . . . until Tuesday night.
S.B. had kindly and out of the goodness of his heart allowed us to guilt him into watching Mr. C for the evening so Bee and I could go out on our first 'date' in months: to the second-run theater to see This Means War. The movie was worth the $1 we spent on it, the popcorn wasn't bad for the $5.50 we spent on it, so all-in-all, as we left the theater at 9:30, we deemed it to be a successful date.
Until the car wouldn't start.
Now this time it took us a little longer to get help, probably because -- with Bee by my side -- I couldn't properly give off the damsel-in-distress vibe. However, someone eventually obligingly stopped and lent his car for a jump start (thank God I'd just moved some extra jumper cables to my trunk!). Too bad the jump start didn't work.
We called roadside assistance (an awesome new feature for me!), and were told someone would be there to help us within forty minutes. Which I thought was a little ridiculous, because our city's not that big. Be that as it may, we had no choice but to spend the time hanging out in the creepy, darkened, deserted back parking lot of the theater until assistance arrived. Which is what we were still doing 50 minutes later.
50 minutes of Bee regretting not flagging someone down earlier to just give us a ride home.
50 minutes of Bee proclaiming he was sure the guy wouldn't show up.
50 minutes of Bee slowly going from content about our evening to grouchy about it.
With no assistance in sight, Bee finally decided to call a cab and come back tomorrow to deal with the problem (which he suspected was a loose battery terminal. Too bad we didn't have any tools to tighten it). He disappeared inside a neighboring bar to make the call. Which was the exact moment the roadside assistance dude showed up.
Arriving in a truck emblazoned with the logo 'Rescue Rangers!', I suspected it took the dude 50 minutes to get to us because he had to first finish the Bud he was drinking or the illegal substance he may have been ingesting via his cocaine pinkie (not to stereotype). He took one look at the battery, proclaimed confidently that it was the loose battery terminal causing all the problems, and returned to his truck for a wrench.
Which was the exact moment Bee returned with a new guy in tow. Smelling very highly of smoke and even more highly of alcohol, the drunk (not to stereotype) swooped in, stared at the battery, confidently proclaimed that it was a loose terminal, jiggled something (something on the battery, I mean), and then told me to start the car.
The Rescue Ranger had, by this point, returned with his wrench, but couldn't access the battery because the drunk had taken control of it and was now continuously insisting I try starting the car. Which, after a hesitating look at Bee (who seemed just as unsure as I), the Rescue Ranger (who seemed to be a little irritated), and the drunk (who was now loudly repeating, "Go on! Turn it on! Keep turning it! Are you doing it?"), I finally complied. And after some more jiggling (of the battery), the car did actually start.
Filled with a combination of relief that the car was working, irritation that all it needed was a wrench, shame that all it needed was a wrench, and uncertainty that it wouldn't need something else in two days, I hopped out of the car to join everyone at the engine block.
The drunk apparently felt it was his duty to tell the Rescue Ranger what the trouble had been.
The Rescue Ranger, now a little angry, was trying to get the drunk to step aside so he could finish. "This is my job," he barked.
The drunk now needed to inform the Rescue Ranger that he had been a mechanic for 25 years, and knew what he was talking about.
The Rescue Ranger, now thoroughly pissed, pointed towards Bee and me and demanded of the drunk, "Are you with them?"
Honestly, I didn't even know if he was, since I hadn't a clue if Bee knew him. So all I could do was stand mutely by as the drunk confidently replied, "Yes, I am . . . 'Rescue' Ranger." Not without a certain amount of derision.
Which was the Rescue Ranger's cue to stalk back to his truck, the drunk's cue to start meandering back towards the bar, my cue to hiss to Bee, "Do you know him?", Bee's cue to smile serenely and say no, then follow the drunk back to the bar, and -- finally -- my cue to take off after the Rescue Ranger to apologize profusely about the situation.
Because I didn't want him to put me on some sort of black list for the next time I'd need rescuing; which, with at the rate things were going, was probably going to be on Friday.
I had to smile and endure ten minutes of the Rescue Ranger's ranting, then five more minutes of talk on some completely different subject, then promise to give him a good review with the insurance company; but I think I managed to get us back in his good graces.
At 10:40, as we drove home, Bee related his end of the story.
"I went into the bar, and there was no one there but the bartender. So I asked her to call me a cab. She did, and I turned around to come back out to you, and there was this guy." Bee shook his head, wonderingly. "I don't know where he came from -- the bathroom, I suppose -- but suddenly he was standing in front of me. And he was so pleased to see me; he was like, 'Hey, Buddy! Where you been?'" Bee was now giggling. "And I said, 'Uuuuh, I was just calling a cab. My car won't start.' And the guy thought about this for a moment, and then he said, 'I can start it for you. Why don't you cancel that cab?'
"The bartender and I just looked at each other," Bee laughed, "And I said, 'You can fix it? Do you have a wrench or jumper cables?' And the guy didn't really answer that, he just looked at me and said, 'Listen, you can take a cab home if you like. But I can fix it for you.'
"And so I just said, 'O-Kaaaaay', and told the bartender to cancel the cab. And we came out and saw you and the Rescue Ranger, and, well, you know the rest."
Bee was just so tickled by the situation. "I don't know where he came from or how he knew he could fix the car when he hadn't even looked at it." He was giggling again. "He was like a drunk angel," he finally pronounced.
We laughed about it the whole way home, and have laughed about it since. All-in-all, I've been lucky with my car troubles all week. I guess we'll see how lucky I stay: I'm due for a break-down tomorrow, and who knows if there'll be a rent-a-cop, a homeless man, a Rescue Ranger, or a drunk angel to help deliver me from evil?
Although, honestly, I'm kind of looking forward to finding out.
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| (I'm not making this up) |
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