Surly, I sorely half-eavesdropped on the success story’s parting instructions. Let the car run for x-amount of time to recharge, and it will be fine. Seemed like standard advice.
After sliding the truck back a few feet so fixed guy and his happy car could drive away from our odd little coincidental group, the AAA car-whisperer came back to me. Contemplative, he decided to jump aboard my unrealistic optimism train. As evidenced, the jump box wasn’t the problem. So, we tried again. Cranked, the car weakly sneezed and let out a light aluminum wheeze.
Towman theorized I had an ignition problem or a faulty starter that was de-juicing my battery.
He headed for his rig in search of what I thought would be some other sort of stronger hook-up jumper.
My mind immediately flitted to those pesky ignition-recall postcards I’ve been receiving for about 5 years. The alert cautioned my 2007 ignition could malfunction if the cumulative weight of many keys and an abundance of dangler/flash on a keyring were too heavy. My own personal and very wise car advisor told me not to worry about it years ago, too. He’s super smart and logical, and cares about cars, so I always listen to his vehicular wisdom.
Once my geriatric Pontiac was cabled to the heavy-duty truck’s engine, it slowly woke up and chugged itself into a running engine. Revivification and relief!
After unhooking and putting away equipment, the fixer came back with a clipboard. I’d seen him check the VIN on the car next to me, so I asked if I should get out so he could get in. “Nah,” he replied, going on to infer that it was unlikely after all this time spent together that I was stealing the oldie and someone else’s cat in the back-seat.
“Didja hear what I told that guy?” he asked me. “Sort of,” I said.
“Well, that doesn’t apply to you.”
He advised I go straight home without stopping anywhere, without turning it off. Additional recommendation included backing the car into my driveway or garage, because it’d be easier to hook up if I needed a tow somewhere, later.
I decided it’d be smarter just to take my car straight to Ron’s Garage.
I called, explained my recent car odyssey and asked if I could drop it off. As usual, they gave me an easy ‘yes.’
Incident behind me, conclusion in front of me, I set out on my HBlu-barking trek home. 10 miles later I dropped the little struggler off.
The car. Not the cat.
Quote for the week:
Curious. Curious things happen to me.
I had briefly entertained the notion that it might be wise to ask the next-to-me car dude for a jump. By then, it’d already been a little over an hour. I considered it probably wouldn’t be that much longer. Besides, the slowly lowering slouchy-ness just didn’t seem that approachable.
Shortly, the tow truck rolled in. I opened my door to wave and saw him see me. Making a loop around the parking lot, the driver pulled up directly behind me. Absolutely, blocking the other guy in.
Just as the driver jumped out, the door on the car next door swung open. The pretty blues and purples caught my eye as I watched the owner exit, shoulders a little high.
“Oh, no,” I thought. “He’s gonna make a scene because now he can’t get out.”
I jumped out of my dead ride and called over the roof, all cheerful-like intending to diffuse whatever. “Hi,” I waved. “I’m the one who needs help…”
“I know,” the operator called back. “I couldn’t believe it! What are the chances that two people parked next to each other would both need a jump and both call AAA?”
Holographic car guy turned around to look at me. Astonished, I told him that I had almost asked him for a jump. He said, he’d almost asked me for one, too.
Pulling all of the necessary cables and gear behind him, he stopped at my car first. A few fumbles later I pulled the correct lever hard enough to unlatch my hood. A quick hook-up and a crank and… a flock of moshing, honking-seagulls made themselves known.
“Hmm.” There’s nothing as quietly unnerving as a mechanically inclined person looking down into your car guts muttering, “Hmm…” (I take that back. It’s much worse when a doctor does that to you.)
A little tinkering movement later I heard, “Try it, again.”
Optimistically, I did. The cymbal smashing squirrels made a half-hearted effort, their odd exuberance was dying.
He stepped away, shaking his head and toting his gathered equipment over to the azure-royal morphing carriage parked adjacently. I called my phone-a-friend-back. “You’re never gonna believe this,” I stated, filling her in on the so-far status of my latest adventure.
I got a little creative in my thinking, at that point. Was there some kind of magnetic suck coming from the holistic health for pets place? Were we near a malfunctioning transformer?
Obviously not, since pretty-car started to purr right away. Yeah, on the first try.
Quote for the Week:
I was taken aback by the bizarre.
Did I want Jeff’s thumbprint on a gold charm? That felt sort of creepy.
Considering the size of his hands, it’d have been a heavy weight, whether it ended up on a necklace or bracelet, tucked into a jewelry box, or just something I just had to hold onto. Nor did I want a vial of ashes to wear around my neck.
When offered a photo-wrapped honor candle, my dull reply was, “I don’t really need anything.”
Roger protested. He earnestly wanted me to have something; a memorial to hold on to. Because it was so important to him, I agreed that a candle would be nice.
There’s a beautiful, golden-orange horizon sunset behind Jeff’s photo, reminding me of the days we spent in Florida before and after my father passed. I’ve only lit it once; for a number of reasons that are not easily explained and will only ever make sense to me.
It remains nestled in a decorative, golden-jacquard mini-trunk, along with sympathy cards, newspaper clippings, funeral pamphlets, and a laminated bookmark type obituary, also in blue.
Since then, I’ve seen more. … interesting … offerings. Ashes swirled in glass globe paperweights, baubles with secret compartments, rings and pendants and cremation ‘diamonds.’ Some quite beautiful, truly – just not for me.
I didn’t choose a decorative urn, but was told I could do that later when I picked up the ashes.
I won’t assign them ‘Jeff’s ashes’. They’re not his. They’re not him. They are only ashes. That’s all.
Quote for the Week: