Mechanical Failure

I admire things that imply the failure of other things simply by their naked existence. A spare tire implies not only the failure of the tire that it’s replacing, but it also points to the limitations of tires in general. Divorce attorneys highlight the finitude of love and the volatile and temperamental nature of human sentiments. Police allude to our inability to behave. Churches illuminate our failure to grapple with the fact that we’re all alone in the universe. Shoe polish indicates leather’s lack of natural shine and resilience. Wars imply the failure of diplomacy and cooler heads. My garage full of art proves my failure to ever sell any of my work. My daily one-hour commute to my miserable job implies my stupidity and complacency.

Flat Tire

On my way home from work today I got a flat tire, in four lanes of gridlocked rush hour traffic. It happened on 5th avenue, which runs through the heart of the University of Pittsburgh’s campus. I made it from the 2nd lane over to the right side of the road. I pulled over by the sidewalk into a metered space. I put a quarter in it, because it was before 6pm, and a parking ticket would just add insult to injury. I got out the spare, the tire iron and the scissor jack. It took a bit of struggle to get the jack in a stable spot underneath the car. It went up, though. The hubcap came off pretty easily, and all the nuts did likewise. All of them except one, which was a little reluctant to come loose. I managed to slip and pinch my hand between the tire iron and the curb in the process of its forceful removal, opening a decent little hole in the meat of my right hand. It bled quickly, and the blood mixed with the dirt already accumulated. The wheel itself, however, was rusted firmly into place. I couldn’t pull it off. I couldn’t even get it to wiggle. College kids streamed past, beautiful girls in short skirts and boys without convictions. They were all young and clean. I am not a proud man, and I would have happily asked one for help, but I just didn’t see any of these guys with more upper body than me. They all looked thin and soft. Filthy, and sweating completely through my clothes, I knelt in the gutter with my blackened hands, one also bloodied now. A woman walking down the sidewalk handing out religious pamphlets approached me, asked if I knew about the lord Jesus Christ, and waved a pamphlet in my face. I wondered if I took the fucking thing, would the lord Jesus Christ come down from his ivory fucking tower and change this goddamned tire? I wondered if I looked like I needed something to read while I tried to pull this rusted fucking wheel off, and I also thought about ending her miserable fucking life with the tire iron still sitting easily within reach of my bleeding right hand. I wanted to cave in her face, take pictures of it, and send them to the lord Jesus Christ as a warning. Instead, I politely said, “No, thank you.” It was the most restraint I’ve ever exercised in my life. After about 15 minutes, a cop showed up and demonstrated how to kick off a tire that’s rusted stuck. Apparently, he worked two jobs. His second job was as a mechanic. He was very friendly and helpful, and looked Hispanic. Nicest cop I’ve ever met. His trick worked pretty quickly. After thanking him profusely, I put on the spare and threw everything else into the trunk. My 45 minute drive home resumed.

December 31, 2006, At the Smiling Moose

Last night the bar was full of beautiful girls, stunning punker girls. Some heavily tattooed, some heavily chested, some just heavy, and each with a unique sense of purpose. I was only half-cocked and sticking to beer, since New Year’s Eve is really not a good night to get hammered. There’s just too much potential for disaster. So I sat quietly with my wife and some new and old friends at an upstairs table. There was a beautiful red-haired, red-lipped, pale girl telling us a story about getting her nipples pierced. It sounded nice. Better than the music that was playing on the juke box. She drank, breathed smoke, and tossed about armchair philosophy with us. Some things were relevant, some things not. Everybody is a moralist. Everybody rationalizes. It’s all goofy and pointless. There wouldn’t be any insanity for us that night, just talk. That was all I really needed. I was content in it. Today, I don’t even have a hangover as a memento.

Driving Like an Asshole

Sometimes when I’m driving, and my wife is with me, I’ll begin to drive like an asshole just to draw out her criticism. It’s not that I like to fight with her, but at least I’ll be able to participate in the argument that my bad driving will precipitate. I normally only use this technique as a method of curtailing a really long story that she’s telling. I can’t participate in a long, winding, one-sided story. I can only desperately fight to listen. The argument that I’ll precipitate with my bad driving will at least be a discourse between both of us. It will bring us closer together, whereas her long story will only drive us apart.

Drunk at the Mall

Tonight I got buzzed and went to the local shopping mall with my wife. In the back of JC Penny's, near where she was getting the free wrapping paper with the towels that she was buying, they had a bunch of exercise equipment for sale. Complicated machines engineered to help lazy people do sit-ups. So I sat down on one, and started doing some of whatever I think I was supposed be doing on it. When I got up, there was a middle-aged black woman walking past, trying not to laugh at me. I made no effort not to laugh.