I'll Be the Roundabout

In honor of the World Cup, I will share a story from my international travels.

My first international business trip involved traveling to London several years ago where I met a couple of other contractors who had rented a car. I did not understand why we rented a car since we would have to to drive on the left side of the road which none of us had done before. But it wasn't my decision, and I would simply be a passenger.

We pulled out of the lot and drove around the airport a couple of times just to get used to this new way of driving. Finally, we got on the major eight lane highway in Monday morning rush hour traffic.

The driver said, "I'm just going to go slow and stay in the right lane until I get the hang of this."

Shortly after pulling into the far right lane, cars flashed their lights, honked and passengers made obscene hand gestures to us as they flew by us on the left. We were surprised that apparently London was the rudest city in the world before we finally realized that we were in the fast passing lane while the left lane was actually the slow lane. I decided that I would not try to learn to drive on the wrong side of the road during this trip.

Flash forward about six years later when I had to spend a month in Belfast, Northern Ireland. I stayed in a company owned townhome along with three co-workers and we shared a tiny car which made a Smart car look like an SUV. One of my co-workers was British so he did most of the driving.

One night after spending some time in the local pub, my British co-worker, who I will refer to as Lloyd because that was his name and it will help you better imagine his high class British accent, suggested that I drive us all back to the townhome.

Lloyd's accent made him sound about ten times smarter than he actually was, and he was pretty smart. For example, we could be having an issue with the washing machine and he might say, "If you put your tongue in the electrical socket, that will probably solve the problem."

And you would think about it for a second before saying, "Hey, wait a minute."

"Remember British electrical sockets are different than American. It's quite safe, really," Lloyd would double down.

Next thing you know, you're on your hands and knees in front of the socket.

Anyway, I explained to Lloyd that was a bad idea since I had never driven on the left side of the road before.

"But," Lloyd said, "I have a British driver's license and if I get pulled over, I'm going to jail and losing my license. But if you get pulled over with your American license, it'll be 'alrighty then, off you go, cheerio.'"

That sort of made sense when you hear it in Lloyd's accent. But looking around at our group, I realized I was the only one that hadn't heavily imbibed, and it probably did make sense for me to drive. Besides, it was only one to two miles on quiet streets and no big intersections save for one roundabout. I took the car keys from Lloyd.

We stuffed ourselves into the car, and I pulled into the street. With the steering wheel on the right side of the car, staying in the left lane would be easier than I thought. I told everyone to warn me if I accidentally got into the right lane, but they were so busy giggling, I don't think they heard me.

The drive was uneventful until we got to the roundabout where I paused then turned to the right. Screaming from the back seat made me jerk the wheel hard to the left. Luckily, being in a small car, I was able to turn in the proper direction without hopping the curb. With all of the yelling and laughing in the car, I lost track of the proper turn and we completely circumnavigated the roundabout. And then again.

"I'm starting to get dizzy," I said. "Would someone please point out the proper turn."

"Just take the next one," Lloyd said. "If we end up back at the pub, it was meant to be."

"We're not going back to the pub."

"Eenie, meenie, minie, moe..." came another helpful voice from the back.

"Go faster, it's like we're on a racetrack," said another.

I finally got my bearings and pulled out of the roundabout onto the correct street. We made it home without any further issues. After parking the car, Lloyd managed to fall out of the backseat onto the ground laughing uproariously. I went inside the house and locked the door.

I learned two valuable lessons that night:

Driving on the wrong side of the road for the first time is probably pretty stupid after a night at the pub even if you aren't drunk.

And a British accent is not necessarily a reliable indicator of IQ.

I Only Got Four Inches

I recently wrote about how men will always lay claim to the best deal on buying and repairing cars. Turns out, that's not all:

We recently hosted a dinner party on our backyard patio. A gentleman we shall refer to as Mr. X, pointed to our back fence and said, "I see you got a rain gauge back there. How much rain did you get last night?"

"As a meteorologist would say, just a trace. Didn't even register," I replied. I then thought back to Memorial Day weekend when it rained for four straight days. "Yeah, but Memorial Day weekend we got 3.75 inches."

"Really? That's great, we got five inches at our house."

Overhearing our conversation, Mr. Y from across the table shouted, "That's all? We got six inches!"

I rolled my eyes while they smirked at me. "Well, my rain gauge is partially under a tree so it probably missed a lot."

"I don't know," Mr. X said. "You probably got extra in there after it stopped raining and the tree was dripping. I bet you only got about 3.5 inches."

"Whether it's four inches or six inches, I think we can all agree that we got some badly needed rain," I said trying to end the conversation on common ground.

"Woah, hold on there," Mr. Y said. "Who said anything about four inches?"

"Well I just rounded up from 3.75 to make it easier."

"You can't do that," Mr. Y said.

"Yeah," Mr. X chimed in. "We only get what, ten inches a year? If we were talking millions that might be okay, but that's more than a rounding error."

"Right," Mr. Y added. "I mean in baseball, if one buy is batting .249 and another guy is batting .251 they don't say one is a .200 hitter and the other is a .300 hitter. They're basically the same but rounding makes one an all-star and the other guy a chump."

"Whatever," I said. "Can't we just be thankful for the rain?"

"Sure, some of us more thankful than others," Mr. X said with a laugh.

"Yeah, your rain gauge needs another weekend like that to catch up with mine," Mr. Y said.

I gave up and waited for them to high-five each other which they never did but that could be because Mr. X still felt inadequate to Mr. Y.

I don't know what I did wrong, bought a house on the wrong side of town, bought a lot with too many trees, didn't pray hard enough or maybe I just put the rain gauge on the wrong side of the yard. But the rest of the town was enjoying their five or six inches while I got stuck with a lousy 3.75. I could hear the lawn mocking me. I imagined the lawn might leave me for Mr. X or Mr. Y.

Later I realized I had it all wrong and came up with the perfect solution.

"Next time we have a party," I told St. Pauli Girl, "all male guests are required to bring documentation of their last car purchase, a receipt from their last car repair and their rain gauge with a signed notarized affidavit of the correct level of the rain gauge. If not, they can just stay home or shut the hell up."

St. Pauli Girl didn't even look up from her book. "Yeah, men are always lying about the size of their rain gauges."

That Time I Almost Met Evel Kneivel

Years ago (on December 31, 1998 to be exact) I landed at DFW (Dallas-Fort Worth Texas) airport just as a snow storm began picking up steam. I had a two hour wait for my next flight and hoped/prayed that the heavy stuff wouldn't come down for a bit so I could get home. Four hours later, my flight was finally cancelled.

I went to the gate agent desk to check my alternatives. The agent told me he could rebook me on the next flight which left at 8:30 or he could put me in a hotel for the night. Then he said, "Aw, this ain't too bad. I'm sure the later flights will be getting out. Besides, traffic getting to the hotel will be worse than what we got here."

Who else better to trust than a gate agent who is at the airport every day and surely knows airport operations better than anyone? I opted to get rebooked on the 8:30 flight.

"Good choice," he said. "That's what I would do."

Three hours later that flight was canceled and every hotel room in Dallas and Fort Worth were completely filled up. I would get to ring in the new year in the DFW airport. And it would be the last time I ever trusted a gate agent.

What else to do but find the bar which luckily stayed open late to accommodate all of the trapped passengers? I managed to score a barstool next to a fidgety young fellow who would probably die if he went fifteen seconds without some sort of human interaction. He talked to the bartender like they were old pals; he talked to people on the other side of the bar, and he talked to the woman next to him. I did my best to pretend I was deaf. But when the woman sitting next to him finally got tired of it and just left, he turned to me.

"Can you believe that?" he asked.

I produced a faint smile and shook my head.

But it was no use; he had me trapped, as I had no place to run to. I don't remember much of what we (he) talked about, but I'm sure it was the usual background info you might give someone next to you on a plane and how we still couldn't believe that woman just up and left.

At some point, he started flipping through his little black book (remember, this was the 'nineties).

"Hey check this out," he said pointing to a number. "That's Evel Kneivel's number."

"Really."

"You don't believe me? Let's call him. I'll call him right now." He reached for his cell phone.

"No, I believe you." I sort of did because if he were just trying to impress me, surely he could have thought up the name of someone a little more relevant at the time. Evel Kneivel hadn't been in the news for years. In fact, I thought he was dead.

"He's a real down to earth guy. I mean, you think a guy like that would have an assistant answer his phone, but he answers it himself."

"Okay."

"Man, you still don't believe me. I'm calling him. Right now." He started punching at numbers.

"No, don't do that," I insisted. "Poor guy can probably barely walk to the phone with all those broken bones."

"Aw, he never complains about that at all. The man's a prince." He listened to the phone for a second then handed it to me. "Next voice you hear will be Evel's."

I tried to push it away but then reconsidered. Evel--if it really was him--would be upset if he hobbled all the way to the phone and no one was there. I listened, wondering what I might say. "Hey Evel, how's it hanging? Big fan here." Or "Man, I've seen you crash and burn a bunch of times!"? Or maybe "Got any new jumps in the works?"

I held my breath as the phone rang. "He's not home," I said, handing back the phone after eight or nine rings.

"Yeah, and darn it, I don't have his cell number. He likes to have some privacy, you know." He put his phone away. "Shame, you would have really liked him."

A short time later, he excused himself to the restroom. I enjoyed my newfound tranquility so much that it took me awhile to realize he never returned.

The bartender approached me with a suspicious stare. "Hey, where's your buddy?"

"My . . . buddy? I don't know him. Just met him tonight. Jabbermouth."

"Yeah, well he walked his tab."

"Really? Aw man, that stinks." I went over the top, milking it up in case he tried to stick me with the guy's tab. "Scumbag. Jerk. You can't trust anyone these days."

The bartender shrugged and lightened up a bit.

"You know," I said, "maybe he's getting Evel Kneivel to wire him some money."

The bartender gave me a blank stare. I paid my check and left an extra big tip.

It's a good thing Evel didn't answer his phone; he probably would have pretended like he didn't know that guy either.

Texas Bar Exam

My niece recently graduated from law school.  Since she got her undergraduate degree in Texas and since I'm an Ambassador of Texas, I was able to invite her to take the Texas Bar exam.  As a public service I now publish the exam for everyone.

Texas Bar Exam

Select the best answer:

1. Grandma Moses is driving her car at 75 mph on interstate 35. The car GPS gets in a fight with the GPS from her smart phone. The car GPS is telling her to turn right while the phone GPS is telling her to turn left. Grandma Moses splits the difference and goes straight into a utility pole ejecting her through the windshield. She survives but spends a year in the hospital incurring millions of dollars of medical bills. You should:

A. Sue both GPS makers

B. Look for other car owners similarly afflicted and file a class action lawsuit

C. Sue the GPS makers, the car maker and the utility pole maker

D. Help Grandma Moses file for bankruptcy because although large corporations may place a specific cost on death and injuries, the trial lawyers association is the spawn of Satan which only exists to help the devil file frivolous lawsuits.

2. Oil fracking is

A. A relatively new technology and long-term environmental effects are unknown at this time. We should keep a close eye on it.

B. Best regulated by large oil companies like BP

C. A fountain of cash, there's got to be some legal billing in there somewhere

D. A gift from Jesus

3. You go to lunch at the local Chipotle restaurant where you encounter a group of gun enthusiasts expressing their God given Texas rights to bear and display their guns. You should:

A. Explain to them that it is statistically unlikely they'll be mugged for a burrito

B. Explain the definition of "statistics"

C. Encourage them to run for state office as all Texas candidates must have a gun in their campaign photos

D. Congratulate them on their knowledge and defense of the Constitution and states' rights, then show them the AK-47 you keep in your briefcase

4. Texas has the legal right to secede from the United States.

A. True

B. False

C. Maybe, if you are speaking to a large crowd of freedom loving tea partiers

D. What's legal got to do with it? We've got enough guns to secede whenever we damn well please!

5. As laws against gay marriage get overturned all over the country, you are tasked with defending the Texas law before the Supreme Court. Your best argument is:

A. Legalizing gay marriage would result in people marrying livestock and inanimate objects

B. Would result in gay people becoming miserable husbands and wives

C. Would result in fewer shotgun weddings

D. There are no gay people in Texas

6. Recently, the Supreme Court ruled that prayers before town council meetings are legal. Let's say someone named, oh I don't know..., Abdullah gave a prayer before the Wichita Falls town council meeting. You should:

A. Listen carefully and ensure there are no direct religious quotes or mention of God other than something like "Master of the Universe"

B. Congratulate him by saying, "Nice godless speech, Haji."

C. Cover your ears and shout, "I love Jesus! I love Jesus!" so no one can hear him

D. Stone him

E. Trick question, although stoning him is a good answer, you might be accused of practicing sharia law. Shooting him would be easier and more practical.

7. Is it legal to put Chinese 5-spice in BBQ sauce?

A. Yes

B. No

C. Aw, hell no!

D. Yes, if you are a communist living in Austin

8. A shoplifter grabs a case of beer in a convenience store and sprints for the door. Under Texas law, the clerk should:

A. Let the crook go, lock the door and call the police

B. Chase the crook as far as the clerk can run

C. Shoot the crook and if the crook falls outside the door, drag the body back inside

D. Aim for the head, then stand over the body and say something like "No more Miller time's for you." or "There's no cold ones in hell."

9. Which of the following would make the best expert witness at a trial:

A. An arson expert named Bubba who declares "the fire had to be arson cos those flames moved faster than a centipede at a toe countin' contest"

B. A jailhouse snitch promised dropped charges for his/her testimony

C. An ex-deputy who uses his specially trained hounds in police lineups to identify the crook by smell

D. All of the above

10. The job of the Texas state attorney general is to:

A. Ultimately enforce the laws of the state

B. Defend the state against frivolous lawsuits

C. Wait in line to be governor

D. Sue O'bama 24 hours a day

11. Which of the following would result in the longest jail sentence?

A. Make a false statement on a Small Business Administration loan application

B. Borrowing $2 million from an out of state bank with a specific stock as collateral. Then taking that money to purchase the stock which you used as collateral.

C. Taking a mortgage from an out of state bank then adding a superior lien which is magically owned by your children. Declare the original loan in default and allow your children to foreclose on your property thereby nullifying the bank's lien.

D. Urinating on the wall of the Alamo

12. You are representing a client at a high profile murder trial. Everyday you must meet the media who are trying to get you to spill confidential information. You should:

A. Just say, "No comment."

B. Answer what you can and explain there are some things that are confidential

C. Just repeat the question back to the asker

D. Just say, "Adios mofo."

13.  If you graduated from Texas Tech law school:

A.  You probably did well on the bar exam

B.  You probably learned a lot about energy law including oil and wind

C.  You probably learned a lot about water and mineral rights

D.  You are probably a rude, cheap-ass tipper

14. The longest serving governor in the history of the great republic of Texas is:

A. Stephen F. Austin

B. Sam Houston

C. George W. Bush

D. Rick Perry, and by gawd don't ever forget it!

How Not To Be a Contractor

I may have mentioned previously that when we bought our current house in the fall of 2012, walking through the front door was like stepping into Mr. Peabody's WAYBAC machine with the dial set to 1973. The front rooms had greenish yellow shag carpeting which amazingly looked a lot like Elvis' Jungle Room at Graceland circa 1976 (no, St. Pauli Girl would not allow me to recreate the jungle room). So for the past 18 months we have been slowly renovating and have learned the many idiosyncrasies of contractors, like how they work in their own time and space dimensions.

In February, we decided to finally tackle the kitchen, which would be our biggest and costliest renovation. We spent January getting estimates from plumbers, contractors, and electricians. It took all of January because most of them never returned our calls, the ones who did and made appointments rarely showed up, and of the final few, only two submitted an estimate. (Not to mention the tile guy "finalist" whose estimate looked good so we hired him, he said he'd start on Monday at 9:00, and we never heard from him again.) To summarize, we had to make six calls to get one estimate.

For the main project of knocking out a wall and reconfiguring a counter inot a breakfast bar, we finally settled on the bid of someone we'll call “Joe the Contractor.” Joe said it would take a week, maybe ten days. Did I mention that contractors live in their own time and space dimensions?

Day 1: Joe never showed up. He finally called and said he'd definitely be there the next day.

Day 2: Joe showed up with a helper. We were off to a good start.

Day 3: Joe's helper showed up by himself. Joe called later and explained the helper would remove the kitchen cabinets by himself. The helper successfully accomplished this task.

Day 4: Joe showed up and waited for his helper who never showed up. Joe complained to me, “I just don't know about these guys. They say they want to work and then disappear.” Hmmmm.

Day 5: Joe and another helper removed the wall and kitchen sink. The hard part was done! Or not.

Day 6: Joe started work on the new countertop which would extend out into the newly-opened space as a breakfast bar. He was very proud of his carpentry work and the new countertop looked nice, although the bar part seemed kind of small to me.

(It's important to note here that St. Pauli Girl designed the new kitchen layout and went over it detail by detail with Joe before he began. Had I been in charge, I would have said, “Well, we need a refrigerator, a microwave, and enough storage for the paper plates, cups, and sporks. That should do it.”)

When St. Pauli Girl came home that day she had a meltdown: the width of the new countertop/breakfast bar was a good 20 inches less than what she had specified. She called Joe and reminded him of the measurements they had gone over, stressing the "breakfast bar" part.

Day 7: Joe apologized, tore off the countertop and started a new one. He said, “I don't know, Dexter, maybe I should start writing stuff down.”

Day 8: While we were still waiting for the specially ordered laminate for the counter, Joe had an electrician friend come in to re-route some of the wiring from the old wall. Later that night, St. Pauli Girl noticed there was no electricity in the entire east side of the house.

Day 9: Saturday. The electrician pointed out he had disconnected the ceiling fan the previous day. I pointed out he had disconnected half of the house. “No, just the ceiling fan,” he insisted. I showed him the non-working half of the house. A few hours later, we had electricity again.

As much as we liked how hard Joe had been working, we really needed a break from him, so when he reported that he'd be back on Sunday, I said, “Oh no, take a break. Besides we'll be in church. And it's going to be a long service. Like all day.”

Day 10: The laminate for the countertop arrived. Joe carefully installed it, a beautiful faux marble. I couldn't wait for St. Pauli Girl to come home--she was going to love it!

Day 11: Time to install the new sink that had been waiting in the garage for weeks. Joe started on the cutout. After a few hours of diligence and lots of noise, I heard, “Damn!” followed by a pounding on the countertop. Joe came to my office and slammed open the door. “Dexter, you aren't going to believe this.”

He led me to the kitchen and showed the hole in the counter. “I read the sink specifications on the box and cut the hole accordingly. Maybe I should have taken the sink out and measured it.”

Yes, the hole was too big for the sink. Joe proceeded to tear off the second countertop, fresh laminate and all. We would have to order more, which meant more waiting.

The days had turned to weeks as we trudged through the project. Joe went off and worked on someone else's kitchen tasks while we continued washing dishes in the small bathroom sink. Joe hinted that he and another guy could tile the kitchen floor while we waited. Imagining what that comedy of errors might entail, we hired a third-generation tile-ist (whose five brothers also did tile/carpentry work) who showed up on time and finished the entire floor and a brick backsplash in two days.

After eleven days without a dishwasher or kitchen sink, the countertop installation was a success on the third try; the sink and the plumbing were easy after that. Later that day we let Joe know that he wouldn't be needed for the rest of the kitchen (Phases II and III). We called the tile guy to finish the rest, and he and his partner had it done in a day.

We have since scaled back our future renovation plans. If we can't do it ourselves, it's not going to happen.

My Repairman Can Beat Up Your Repairman

There are two things in the male culture that require full disclosure:

1. The price of a new car
2. The price of a car repair

The price of a new car is required to be transparent because everyone considers himself a superior haggler who will never get taken advantage of by a car salesperson. And the price of a car repair must be disclosed because everyone knows someone who can always do it cheaper.

Unfortunately I forgot about those caveats when we had the brakes fixed on our car a couple of months ago. I stopped at the local brewpub for a beer where I sat next to “Any Other Guy in the World” (who we will abbreviate as “Any” for our purposes here).

Female bartender: Can I help you?

Me: Give me the hoppiest IPA you have. And make it a 23 ouncer.

Any: Wow, tough day?

Me: Yeah, just got my car out of the repair shop.

Any: (to the bartender) Ma'am, put his beer on my tab.

Me: Thanks, mighty kind of you.

Any: I've been there. I'm sure you need a break after that. What did they get you for?

Me: Brakes. Front and back.

Any: Disks? Pads?

Me: Everything, plus some stuff I had never heard of.

Any: Wooh, that's tough. So what did they charge?

Me: A lot more than I had planned for.

Any: And what did you plan for?

Me: (after a long pause) A few hundred dollars.

Any: Mmm-hmm. (wincing) Now you didn't go to a …

Me: Dealer? Heck no. They'll rip you off. Charge you for the paper mats they put it in the car to avoid tracking in grease.

Any: Amen to that. (He raised his glass and I clinked mine with it.) So if you didn't go to the dealer then you probably got a fair deal. So what did it run you?

Me: ( I hesitated for a long time then finally realized I had to come clean) $800.

Any: Mercy! Were they solid gold brakes?

Me: Well it included a lifetime warranty.

Any: Sounds like 5 lifetime warranties to me, plus a pet Panda bear for the kids.

Bartender: That's not so bad. That's about what I paid when I had mine replaced.

Any: Well you're a woman.

Me: Yeah, you're supposed to get ripped off on car repairs. (pause) Hey, wait a minute, are you implying that I'm a woman?

Any: (shrugs, looks up at the ceiling, then sips his beer)

Me: I'm new to the area so I kind of had to guess on where to go. Back in Boston, I had a guy that could have done it for $500.

Any: Those are yankee prices. I got a guy out on County Road 400 would do it for $300 tops. And since he knows me, I get a friend discount of $150.

Me: That's nothing. My guy in Boston not only would give me the same friend discount, but he'd throw in a couple of Celtics courtside tickets.

Any: Basketball? My guy has a private suite at Cowboys Stadium which I get to use once a season as long as I get my oil changed by him.

Me: Ha! My guy pays me to change my oil.

Any: My guy drills then synthesizes his own oil and provides it free of charge. And it's a weight you can't find in any store. And he doesn't always ask to change my air filter.

(I finally realized we could declare it a draw at this point, plus he bought me a beer, so I decided to back off.)

Me: Your guy sounds impressive. How can he afford all that?

Any: He fixes a lot of women's cars.

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!"