Miz Susan and I were patting ourselves on the backs as we approached the third day of our three-day weekend. There were forecasts of snow for Monday which firmed up into warnings of 3-5 inches during AM drive-time. Which, normally, would be bad news. Except that we (mostly me) wouldn't be be a part of the AM drive-time freeway parking lot snarl. That's the one which can add an hour of clenched fists, gritted teeth and muttered obscenities to my usual 40-minute drive up scenic I-94 north by westbound. Yay for our side! Dodged a bullet there.
Not so fast, buck-o. I'd planned a quick run over to the Health Partners clinic which keeps track of my health or what passes for my health. I'd gotten a threatening letter from the clinic recently which said that I was overdue for blood tests and various other chem-lab analyses of what rotten shape I'm in. The clinic and my doctor and I are involved in this complex dance around each other in which the trained medical professionals try to keep tabs on me while I want to pretend that I'm still 27 and not old, overweight and afflicted with a variety of conditions owing to the generally dissolute lifestyle I've adopted. It's not like I'm a 3-pack a day smoker or a smack freak but, given the appropriate circumstances, I'm not ruling anything out. Other than that which my shrinking bank balance won't allow. I can't afford any of the really dangerous vices that are available to those with wads of disposable income. Professional athletes or politicians on the take, for example.
So, despite my suspicion that the clinic isn't so much interested in my well-being as it is in collecting evidence of me being a bad insurance risk and ripe for some gouging premium jumps or outright coverage cancellation, I headed out the door fully intending to get over to West St. Paul, get my tests conducted and be back home in an hour. Susan and I had big plans for the rest of the day. We're due for new phones on our Verizon plans and this was to be the long-awaited day (for me, anyway) for the upgrades.
I shoveled snow and cleared off cars for a good 30-45 minutes, a small price to price to pay for being let off the hook from the morning slog into the jaws of white, wintery hell. I finally was able to head down Selby in the big Tahoe which Miz Susan had insisted that I drive. For its inherent safety factor, according to her. Hah!! About two blocks west of Dale, the car died. I noticed this when I stepped on the gas and the big V-8 engine (yes, I'm ashamed) didn't respond. Hmmmm, what the f---? Coasted over to the curb to restart the damn thing. The engine roared to life. God bless Detroit. I made it to Dale and turned left for University Avenue. If pressed, I might (might) admit that I was going to sneak in a stop at the Salvation Army's thrift store at Dale and University. That store's nearness to a Wendy's drive thru window had absolutely no bearing on my possible (repeat: possible) plans. We'll never know. The car died again and I brought it in for a dead stick landing in the middle lane of northbound Dale, about thirty feet shy of Marshall. Goddamnit, what the f---ing hell? This time, there was no start left in the Tahoe. She was as dead as a doornail and wasn't going anywhere without a jump or a tow or a rear end collision courtesy of a northbound vehicle (most likely an MTC bus) piloted by an inattentive driver.
First thought, in a panic. Call Miz Susan and scream at her about the state of HER car and tell her to get over here and save my sorry ass. One problem with that. Other than Susan not answering the phone until like my fourth call, my phone wouldn't work while I was in the car. It was as if I was in some bad, third rate sci-fi movie where all power magically disappears. Oh wait, NBC has been passing that plotline off as primetime TV for the last couple of years. But for me, it wasn't sci-fi, it was happening. Or not happening. The phone wouldn't work; I could dial a call and connect but then it would sputter out and die, much like the Tahoe itself. It was as if the insides of that big ass SUV had become a miniature blackhole from which no energy could escape. I felt like I'd been cast in an episode of The Twilight Zone. And I'd just recharged that phone the night before.
I managed to stagger out of the car and made it to the nearest street corner where my phone came back to life. Cue the TZ soundtrack. Susan and I had been trying to call each other and we could finally talk without my phone spitting out a quick three beeps and disconnecting. I told her where I was and to come and rescue me. And to bring the jumper cables.
Which she did as quickly as she could, I guess, but it seemed like hours. I also called 911 and reported the problems I was causing. While I waited for Susan, a St. Paul cop showed up and planted his squad car in a way that provided a better warning to those stupid northbound drivers than the meager (and undoubtedly battery-draining) flashers. The cop, without a doubt one of St. Paul's nicest, told me that I wasn't anywhere near as stupid as the semi driver he'd just left who'd tried to turn his truck into a snow-clogged alley and managed to block most of Marion Avenue.
Susan showed up eventually in the Camry (God bless Tokyo!) and we tried to jump the Tahoe. Which was having none of it. We had to call the Grand Wheeler auto shop and beg for a tow and then wait again. When the tow truck got there (driven by one of St. Paul's nicest tow truck drivers even if he looked like he was only 15), he ramped our truck up onto the bed of his hauler and left the two of us to follow along behind. The guy at Grand Wheeler said they'd try and figure out what was wrong.
We had to go to work on Tuesday. I drove the Toyota and Susan got a friend from school to pick her up. My drive up 94 between the Lowry Hill tunnel and 694 was slowed to about 20 mph by icy pavement and a dozen or so cars strewn along the shoulder and up against the center barrier as testaments to just how icy that pavement really was. I called the garage later that morning. They'd tried the Tahoe later the afternoon before and it had started right up. And they'd tried it again that morning and it had started right up. They couldn't figure out what was wrong with it but would I pleased come and get it the hell off their lot..
Susan and I picked up the truck that afternoon. I'd gotten her at her school and we'd gone down Jefferson to go to a St. Paul Federation of Teachers rally at school district headquarters. Teachers and parents were rallying to protest the stupidity of district administration for not having settled a 9-month long contract negotiation. Susan was cold and wet and bruised after her boots got soaked and she slipped and fell on the ice. She was glad to see her Tahoe again but she made me drive it home.
We're now $105 lighter in our household fund (coulda been worse, right?) but we're also now filled with doubt and dread about the reliability of our previously reliable Tahoe. There's no telling when it will cut out on us again and I don't think we'll be able to count on the help of one of St. Paul's nicest cops and one of St. Paul's nicest tow truck drivers. We'll probably be pretty much on our own. Like I tell Miz Susan all the time, "You and me against the world, babe."
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