Wrenched Plans

On the coldest day of this past ferocious winter, I had to make a run to the store for necessary blizzard supplies (Doritos, toilet paper, wine, and beer). When I tried to start the car, it hesitated and thought about maybe just staying home before finally sneezing and coughing to life. Unfortunately, in the store parking lot, the battery couldn't even muster a hiccup. Luckily, it was a short walk home.

We went back and jump-started the car, brought it home, and I went to the auto parts store to purchase a new battery. The clerk asked if I was going to bring in the old battery the same day so he wouldn't have to charge the return fee. “Of course,” I said. I looked at his name tag. "See you in a few minutes, Ben.” I'd changed batteries before. Child's play.

Back at home, I pulled out my trusty pliers and popped the hood of the dead car. I tried to manuever the pliers around the nut holding the negative cable in place. No luck.

“Gotta have the right tool for the job,” I remembered, words of wisdom from a certain chainsaw-toting wise guru. I went to the garage and rounded up all the wrenches I could find. None of them fit. “No need to get angry yet,” I thought. “We could use a good set of wrenches.” I went to the hardware store and bought a set of standard wrenches. I then successfully used the 8 millimeter wrench to remove the cables from the battery.

“Almost done,” I thought, eyeing the cable-free battery. I pulled on the battery but it didn't budge. I realized there must be something underneath holding it in place. As I peered down with the flashlight, the 8 millimeter wrench slipped from my hand into the area behind the battery.

I got on my hands and knees and looked under the car where the wrench must have fallen. Nothing. I placed my hands on the side of the car and shook vigorously hoping to dislodge the wrench. Nothing. By this time, it was getting dark and much, much colder. “Focus on the task,” I told myself. I shook the memory of my wrench from my head. I looked at the battery again and finally saw the screw at the bottom holding it in place. Then I realized I had nothing to reach it with.

Not up for another trip to the hardware store and dismissing the disappointment Ben must be feeling by now, I decided to call it a day.

 Later that night I told my tale of mechanical woes to Eduardo, St. Pauli Girl's son. Within mere minutes, a friend of his with an extra-long screwdriver arrived and ten minutes after that the battery had been replaced. After thanking them I asked, “Did you happen to find a wrench in there?” Negatory.

The next day, before going to visit Ben, I took the car on a shakedown cruise to see if maybe the wrench would fall out, hoping it wouldn't land on a gear or piston and destroy the car. “I bet I could at least return the new battery if that happened,” I thought. I took the car out onto a country road, then I jolted the car over some pretty rough bumps at a dangerously high speed but never heard a clink or a clatter.

I wheeled into the auto parts parking lot, newly-loosened shocks and all, then waited. Finally, I saw Ben exit the back door to take out the trash. I dashed in, left the old battery on the deserted counter, and left.

I now had a working car but was afraid to drive it with the wrench on the loose somewhere under the hood. I decided to get an oil change. When they finished, the clerk handed me the bill.

“Say, you guys didn't happen to leave a wrench in there somewhere?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Nope. We account for all tools before closing the hood. Standard operating procedure.”

“Yeah, it would be pretty stupid to leave a wrench in there.”

“Yeah, really stupid,” he said.

After a few weeks, I forgot about the wrench. Then one day, St. Pauli Girl and I went out for a ride. She drove through an intersection with a deep swale. The car with all its loose shocks and ancient struts bounced violently, and we almost hit out heads on the ceiling.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn't realize it was that deep. Or that our shocks were that bad.”

I suddenly thought of the lost wrench. “Woo hoo! If that didn't jar the wrench free, nothing ever will!"

Scenes from a Bar/Lobby

We recently had a quick weekend getaway a few hours from here. After checking into the hotel, we took the elevator to our floor where we were greeted by about 50 kids roaming the hallway. If you've ever tried a weekend getaway in the last 15 years, you've probably had a similar experience. Apparently, hotels have colluded with youth sports leagues to convince parents to spend money traveling to out of town football/basketball/hockey/kung fu/archery/chess/full contact crochet tournaments. And apparently, especially this weekend in particular, the front desk clerk is the babysitter.

Later that night, we came back from dinner to discover kids running around in football uniforms. This happened in late January when every league is done except for the NFL. But of course this is Texas. Anyhow, we went to our floor where kids were rolling their football helmets down the hallway in some sort of race. We decided to go to the hotel bar.

Now the bar of this hotel had what they call on HGTV, an open floor plan. In actuality, it was just a section of the lobby with some tables and chairs. In the morning, it's a breafast room, at night they open up a locked liquor cabinet behind the breakfast bar, and it's suddenly Moe's Tavern.

St. Pauli Girl sat at a table while I approached the bar where three women in their early 20's sat. One of them looked at me and said, “Hi, how's it going?” That caught me off guard because usually the next question coming from someone like that to me is, “and would you like to supersize that?” But then I recognized her as the front desk clerk who had checked me in earlier. I guessed she had just gotten off work and was having drinks with friends.

I got our drinks and went back to the table where St. Pauli Girl sat. Our adult bar time ended quickly as hordes of twelve year old football players ran screaming through the bar/lobby. We also noticed that there were no parents around. I could only guess that they had taken their coolers of beer to the hotel room and told the kids to go play in the bar.

A short time later, an older shaggy looking gentleman wandered through the bar and complained to the front desk clerk that the ATM she had recommended charged him three dollars. He then pulled out his cellphone and started yelling to someone who I'm guessing had to be named “Cooter.” He explained to Cooter that he was going honking tonking that night and that he had come to town to get a “kick-ass sound system installed in my truck. Now I'll be able to watch porn while I drive!”

I also noticed that the front desk clerk kept walking back and forth in front of us. Being college educated, I also realized this happened everytime the phone rang at the front desk. She was still working: checking people in, answering the phone and hanging out with friends in the bar! The genius hotel owner must have decided to only have telephones with cords so the clerk would never leave the front desk. He forgot about the part where $7.25 an hour, 20 year old front desk clerks just don't care.

We finally saw a parent come into the bar. We hoped she would round up all the kids and send them back to their rooms. No, she went to the bar and ordered coffee for all the kids. Then she went back to her room while the kids loaded sugar into their coffee. Our only hope at this point would have been a mass exorcism.

Then another kid dressed only in gym shorts came into the bar. I thought maybe he had come from the pool but I realized the hotel didn't have an indoor pool; he just thought that's the way to go out in public in January no less.

We decided not to have another drink. I said to St. Pauli Girl, “I didn't see a sign but I think the name of this bar is 'Pedophile's Dream.'”

Amazingly, we weren't kept awake all night by rowdy kids in the halls. But then again I guess that's because they were all down in the bar.

Can't Ignore the Train

At a recent family gathering back in Tennessee where most of my siblings still live, conversation naturally turned to our teenage years. I brought up one of my younger-brother experiences as a freshman at our Catholic high school, the same year one of my brothers was a senior and football star. It didn’t hurt that he also looked like a young Tom Selleck without the mustache and Higgins. Of course his adulation from girls rivaled that of a modern boy band. This led to my being popular as well, but for all the wrong reasons. That year, a few weeks before the annual Sadie Hawkins dance, girls began following me like a pack of wolves, begging me to ask my brother if he had a date for the dance, or quizzing me to see if I thought he might be interested in going with them.

My freshman friends were impressed. How had I become so magnetic overnight, and with older women to boot? But I eventually got annoyed with the attention, as I had now essentially become my brother's valet. One sophomore girl even tracked me down daily after school to hand me lengthy love notes to deliver to my brother. It wasn’t until years later that I realized how dumb I was (being a dumb freshman) not to take advantage of the situation. What a golden opportunity to invent the “test drive date”—whereby I could invite my brother’s admirer out for a preliminary spin before formally introducing them. Or I could have been more dastardly telling prospective admirers that they should present my brother (big Beatles fan) a gift of the Bee Gee's Sgt. Pepper Soundtrack. Then she could explain to him how it is far superior to the Beatles' version. And John Lennon is no Peter Frampton.
 

Not to be outdone, my dad then told the story of when he courted my mother while she was enrolled in a Catholic college, back in the ‘50s. He sent a telegram to the local radio station dedicating her favorite song to her. (As my dad talked, there was a long pause as we all struggled with the concept of sending telegrams to radio stations.) Anyway, the day after the song dedication, the Monsignor at the college pulled my mother out of class to lecture her about staying away from my dad. Anyone who would publicly display affection like that was “bad news,” the Monsignor warned her. Apparently, the Monsignor listened to that bawdy radio station every night just to catch these wayward dedications.
 

My parents are still married 55 years later, in spite of the Monsignor.

As the stories, laughter, and maybe a few drinks passed, the greyness of the drizzly November evening faded for a few moments, and I came to realize a few things.

These are some of the stories we choose to remember from a time when we thought life was normal (if there is such a thing), back when we never thought it might double-cross us.

These are some of the stories we cling to when we take a kick to the gut so hard we can’t catch our breath and think we may never get back up.

These are some of the stories that remind us that there was once a time when days seemed to last for years, instead of years flashing by like a day.

These are some of the stories we cherish as we move forward and try to remember and believe that every short day lived is indeed a celebration.

Great Moments in Customer Service

(Sorry about the delayed posting for those of you that saw: "Placeholder".)

Today we present another episode of Great Moments in Customer Service.

A few weeks ago, after getting home late on a Friday night, St. Pauli Girl and I decided to order Chinese food for delivery. We called our favorite establishment

(which also has good Chinese mustard ).  Thirty minutes later our food arrived, although we had already realized they never asked for our credit card number on the phone. So St. Pauli Girl presented the credit card to the deliveryman who, not surprisingly, told her he couldn't process credit cards.

“No problem,” St. Pauli Girl said, “I'll just call the restaurant back. Wait here.”

A few moments later the man on the phone told her, “We cannot process your credit card right now.”

“But we always use a credit card when we order. We're good, loyal customers.”

“No, we cannot do that right now.”

“Oka-a-ay. How about I give the driver a check?”

“We don't take checks.”

“But we don't have any cash,” St. Pauli Girl reasoned.

“No checks. Cash only.”

We handed the food back to the driver who apologized and left, all the while wondering why they didn't tell us "cash only" when we called.

In short, the driver lost out on a tip, the restaurant had to throw out perfectly good food, and they lost a loyal customer forever . . . all because they wouldn't bend a no-checks policy even under unusual circumstances. (A broken card reader? Cancelled bank account? We'll never know.)

Not to be outdone, an "upscale taco shop" we visited for the first time last weekend made us question the sanity of yet another restaurant management team. After ordering at the counter, the cashier handed us our “chips and salsa” receipt which we were instructed to take to the food window a few steps away.

We stood on the right side of the window in front of the four people working on the other side. No one even looked up. Then we saw the sign on the left side of the window which said “Pick up food here.” So we moved over to the left side of the window and waggled our receipt in the air . . . where the four workers continued to ignore us.

St. Pauli Girl held the receipt up to the window. The four workers continued to plate food and talk among themselves, still refusing to acknowledge our existence. Lucky for them I had a beer in my hand or I would have been forced to take some kind of action.

I glanced through the window and saw a huge metal container with a couple bushels of chips just waiting to be scooped into a basket. I'm sure the salsa was nearby. It would probably take about five seconds to load up a basket of chips and a cup of salsa.

“Do you think we're supposed to walk back there and get it ourselves?” I asked.

St. Pauli Girl pulled on the locked door next to the window. “Guess not,” she said.

“I've already decided I'm never coming back here. Even before we get our food,” I said.

Finally, one of the worker bees grabbed the receipt from St. Pauli Girl's hand, looked at it, then wordlessly set it on the counter. He continued doing other things. When we had just about reached the breaking point, he glanced up, spent about five seconds filling a basket with chips, grabbed a cup of salsa, and set them on the window counter. He still didn't say anything. Without asking, we grabbed the chips and ran.

Later, our number for our tacos were called and I went back to the window to get our food.

“Both of those trays are yours,” said the guy behind the window.

“What? You mean you guys actually speak?” I said, grabbing the trays.

I brought the food back to our table, and St. Pauli Girl realized she forgot to ask for sour cream. Easily remedied, you would think, and you would be wrong. She had to wait in the main line behind a crowd of people to order a side of sour cream. After paying, the cashier gave her a receipt, which then had to be presented at the food window. This all came with the now-familiar ticket-waving and getting-ignored ritual.

Meanwhile I finished my tacos and tried to imagine the business plan pitch for this establishment: “We're going to make really big tacos with interesting toppings but then we'll make it very big city, upscale by providing the kind of service you can expect in a prison cafeteria... except worse.”

Bears Everywhere

Back in August, St. Pauli Girl and I went to visit the mountain cabin of her brother and sister-in-law in the mountains of New Mexico. The rocky dirt road leads to a location so remote that the only area inhabitants are people that don't wish to be found or are up to no good.

“Have you ever thought of building a still out here?” was the first question I asked my brother-in-law.

But it is a very nice cabin, built completely by hand, which is why I refer to my brother- and sister-in-law as Mr. and Mrs. Grizzly. We spent the day hiking around the 25-acre-mountain lot where Mr. Grizzly pointed out the decades-old bear trail and all of the rocks bears had recently turned over looking for grub. Or in this case, grub worms.

Later that night, Mr. Grizzly started grilling some sausage. “Supposedly bears can smell grilled hamburger meat from two miles away,” he noted.

I glanced all around. “And how far away can they smell grilled sausage?”

“That’s five miles.”

Luckily we didn't encounter any bears. That’s especially lucky because the only restroom was an outhouse necessarily situated some running distance from the cabin.

Last weekend, St. Pauli Girl and I returned by ourselves to New Mexico where we had rented a secluded cabin on the side of a mountain. A notice on the door of the cabin warned about high bear activity in the area. The flyer included a cute cartoon picture of a smiling bear wearing a chef's hat and grilling hamburgers, with a warning underneath that read: “The real bear will not look like this.”

Thank you! Yes, we were actually expecting him to wear a tie and green hat. If you want to warn people of danger, a cartoon may not be the best way to go. This would have been far more appropriate.

That notice, cute as it was, pretty much ruined my weekend as I spent the rest of the time worrying about bears. I wandered around the outside of the cabin looking for evidence of bears, just like Mr. Grizzly had taught me. Every time I entered a different room I plotted my escape, depending on where the bear might come from. And the fact the front door was a simple sliding glass door didn't make me feel any safer.

“Do you think we should close the curtains on the door?” I asked St. Pauli Girl.

“No, why?”

“If the bear can see inside, he may be more likely to break in. I mean, what if he smells the coffee?”

I then pointed out if we wanted to use the hot tub on the deck, we should do it before we grill the steaks. “I bet they can smell prime rib eye from ten miles.”

We did make use of the hot tub, but I didn't enjoy it very much. I was on the lookout for bears.

“Will you stop it and just relax,” St. Pauli Girl said at one point, noticing I looked ready to bolt at the slightest rustling through the pines.

“I think the only thing worse than being eaten by a bear would be getting drowned by a bear,” I said. “Heck, if he tossed some carrots and onions in first, he could just turn this hot tub into a big stew pot.”

But once again we survived the weekend with no bear sightings. On the last day, we wandered around the property a bit. On the hill behind the cabin, I noticed a sign that marked the boundary of the national forest.

“Oh I'm so stupid,” I said slapping my forehead.

“What?”

“This is a national forest, and the government is shut down. The bears are on furlough.”

 

 

A Captain Amidst Majors

In honor of fall, today's post will involve an old football story:

In my freshman year of high school, we were warming up for our second game of the season. As we stretched, the coach walked by and told me that I would be a captain for the game. I nodded then he walked away while I pondered the awesome responsibilities that might be required of me.

I wondered if I should move to the front of the team to lead the exercises. But there were already two players leading, and it would have caused a scene if I pushed them aside. But I was the captain. Didn't I have the duty to take over? Instead I decided I would do some shouting to inspire the team.

“Yeah, okay, woo-hoo!” I shouted through my helmet

The player next to me looked at me and said, “God bless you.” He apparently thought I sneezed.

Just before gametime, the referee led my co-captain and myself to the middle of the field for instructions and the coin toss.

The referee said, “Now when there is a penalty, raise your hand so we can find you and go over the possibilities. We don't want you looking at your coaches for assistance. This will be a good learning experience.”

He then flipped the coin, and I called, “Heads.”

The coin came up tails and allowed our opponent to get the ball first. As we jogged off the field, my co-captain said, “You idiot! We always call tails.”

“What? Since when? Nobody told me that.”

He just sighed.

When we got back to the sideline, I saw him talking to the coach who then glared at me. Apparently I had missed the super secret captain's meeting where such matters were discussed.

“It's not like the coin toss is going to decide the game,” I told myself in a little pep talk.

Five minutes later, we came off the field after the other team had taken the ball and driven right down the field for a touchdown. I noticed the coach frowning at me again.

Later in the game when were down 20 – 0 (and reducing the importance of the coin flip), the other team was flagged for a penalty. The referee grabbed me by the shoulder and steered me away from my teammates and away from my coach on the sidelines. He started explaining my options, but having played and seen enough football, I already knew the correct decision.

Regardless, out of the corner of my eye, I could see my coach practically doing backflips trying to signal me what to do. Meanwhile, my teammates followed the referee and myself as we seemed to dance around the field trying to avoid coaches and players. My teammates yelled at me to accept the play and not the penalty which I had already decided to do.

“We'll decline,” I told the referee while motioning my hands in the normal referee decline signal.

“What?” asked the referee as if he were a novice.

“We don't want the penalty.”

“So you want the play?”

“Yes, that's what I said.”

The referee then approached the sidelines where he announced, “The penalty is declined.” He waved his hands below the waist just like I had done a minute before.

The game ended shortly thereafter. But I have always been annoyed that I got blamed for something I didn't know (always call tails) and everyone else took credit for the one penalty decision I had to make.

Later that season, that day's co-captain and myself were named captains again. As we went out for the coin toss, I told him he could make the call.

The referee tossed the coin and my co-captain said, “Heads.”

I stared at him in disbelief as the coin turned up heads, and we got the ball first.

As we ran off the field, I said, “I thought we always called tails?”

“I just had a feeling.”

The coach slapped him on the back when we got back to the sideline. I guess some captains are born leaders and others are destined to be stuck in a regiment of majors.

Saved

For some reason my previous blog post reminded me of this incident from my youth:

I was 14 years old and at the mall with my dad on a Friday night. (For you younger readers, this is the equivalent of spending Friday night watching CSI reruns with your parents and not getting a single text, tweet or Facebook update.) I walked a good five to six feet behind my dad, pretending I didn't know him.

As we neared the center of the mall, I noticed a girl my age standing alone. She smiled at me. I smiled back. Her blonde hair was carefully coiffed; she wore jeans and a pink blouse pulled tight over a figure that seemed far more advanced in age than her face.

As I tried hard not to stare, she suddenly held up her hand and stopped me.

“Hi, I'm Sharla! Have you been saved?”

I glanced around. “What? You mean from my dad?” I pointed in his direction then tried to be more suave. “I mean, no, that's not my dad. He's just some guy that cut me off in my Trans Am in the parking lot. Thought I'd come give him a piece of my mind.”

“No, silly. I mean, have you accepted Jesus?”

“Oh. I'm Catholic.”

I now know that usually that at this point she should have turned me over to her recruiter, or she should have at least said, “You're going to hell anyway.” But Sharla didn't blink. Maybe she just liked me?--my 14-year-old self hoped.

“That's okay, Jesus wants to save everyone,” she said, still smiling. “Would you like to pray with me?”

Without waiting for an answer she took me by the hand and led me to a bench. She sat and turned sideways, clasped both my hands in hers, and leaned forward.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

I did as instructed. Then I slowly opened one eye to see if hers were closed. They were, and I realized then that I could see right down the pink blouse. I opened both eyes. Wide.

“Do you want to go to heaven?” she asked, squeezing my hand with her eyes squeezed shut.

“I think I can see it from here.”

“Great! If you accept Jesus as your personal savior right now, your place in heaven is waiting for you.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't hear that. Can you move closer?”

She scrunched her knees next to mine and leaned forward. At this point I lost track of everything she said. Five minutes earlier, I was the biggest loser on earth spending Friday night with my dad and now sweet Sharla had my hands in hers while I enjoyed a heavenly view. I looked around hoping someone from school might see me. I felt her hands tighten around mine.

“Did you hear me?” she said with a frown, eyes open.

“Oh, what? Sorry, it's loud in here.”

She closed her eyes and resumed praying.

I looked around and noticed four or five other pairs of kids holding hands and doing prayers on surrounding benches. A couple of middle-aged men with stylish Moe Howard haircuts walked around keeping an eye on everyone. I couldn't decide if they were ministers or sales managers. One of them made eye contact with me and glowered. I immediately closed my eyes and threw my head back as if in rapture. He left, and I refocused my gaze.

“Repeat after me,” Sharla said.

I hesitated. Now she wanted me to actually pray out loud with her.

“Did you hear me?” she said somewhat annoyed, jiggling just enough that I decided right then and there that I would push virgins into a volcano for her if necessary.

I repeated all her prayers, and she finally asked, “Do you accept the Lord Jesus Christ as your personal savior?”

I sighed, knowing it was all coming to an end soon, so I leaned in and admired the good Lord's handiwork one last time.

“You bet I do.”

She jumped up and hugged me, which answered one of my own prayers. I glanced heavenward, a chill running up my back.

Sharla pulled away and smiled.

“Have a great weekend,” she said.

“Hey, can I have your phone number?”

“What? Oh, no! Gross!”

Newly saved but devastated, I walked in a fog to the record store, wondering if I could come back and get saved again the next Friday. And the one after that. Perhaps if I got saved enough I might be less gross to her.

I walked back into the mall and finally caught up with my dad who asked where I had been. I started to tell him that I met someone then sighed and said, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”