I appear to be at war with the inanimate.
Not having declared this war myself, it is obvious who the aggressors are. They are my blender, my vacuum cleaner, my car (the ringleader, I suspect) and a dozen other artifacts the purpose of which I thought, mistakenly, was to serve me. Last week, a new recruit joined the ranks seeking to separate me from my sanity.
But first, let’s go back to that ringleader. The Brown Goddess, as my friend Jody dubbed her, apparently has the hots for my mechanic. This summer I have taken her for oil changes, tire changes, filter changes, and a few weeks ago she came up with her biggest coup yet.
It was 104 outside, and I had an interpreting assignment. Halfway to my destination, the temperature gauge in the car shot up to the danger zone. I pulled over and came to stop under a tree. Sitting there for a while, I pondered and my forehead grew damp from the heat. I had just topped off the coolant the day before. The needle sank back down and after a few minutes, I started her up. The needle stayed down in the happy zone – until two blocks later, when it skyrocketed again. I pulled over and waited again. Beads of perspiration dripped onto my phone as I called the agency and told them I would not make it to the assignment on time. They arranged for a replacement. After a few minutes of planning my next move, I turned the Goddess’ nose homeward.
Remember, her personal agenda was different from mine. In starts and stops (letting her cool down periodically), I made my way toward home. Mere perspiration was but a memory; I was driving a mobile sweat lodge. We continued this way until I neared a turn: one way would take me home, the other led to my mechanic’s shop. Mechanic, the Goddess insisted, and the needle shot up to the danger zone again.
Pulling onto a side street about a ¼ mile from the shop, I sat under a tree and talked to the Brown Goddess, woman to machine. I explained that this wasn’t the most convenient time for her to leave me high and dry. Then I turned the key again. This time, nothing.
Actually, not “nothing”. She made a rather frightful buzzing sound and the clock on my radio reset itself. Then, in that hot and silent afternoon, the Brown Goddess talked back.
“Boom...BOOM... Boom...BOOM...” she said. The sound was unmistakably coming over the speakers, but the radio was off. In fact, the whole car was turned off.
“Boom...BOOM...Boom..Boom...BOOM”. A rhythm was developing. In a minute or two, the Goddess sounded like a teenager cruising the main drag. She rocked out and I sunk into the seat in abject embarrassment. John would have loved this, I thought.
Which is about when I heard the guitar. One...two...three...four. What sounded like a single string being picked on a bass guitar floated out of the speakers I had turned off. A moment later, the rhythm stopped and all was silent.
All but the laughter that I couldn’t seem to stop. The Brown Goddess had spoken.
Eventually, I called roadside assistance and was towed to the mechanic. The Goddess had blown a hole in her radiator. A few hours and an empty wallet later, she was home and I was hoping for a truce.
There have been no more trips to her mechanic. She hasn’t broken out in song again. But I know the revolution lingers on:
Last week, my grand-dog came to stay for a week. She is the size of a small pony and has a bladder to match. The day she arrived, I found that the lock on the only door leading to the fenced-in yard refused to open. It won’t budge. And so I have to put the leash on Maggie and walk her out to the back yard through the garage and side gate, in my bathrobe, and then patiently wait while she “does her business”.
Reinforcements in the shape of my handyman should arrive tomorrow. Meanwhile, I hear the lock got a promotion and now prefers to be called “Sarge”.
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