Voodoo for Sure

Did I ever suggest I am under some sort of voodoo hoodoo curse?  I might have.  Do I have proof?  Not solid, no.  But experiential?  Let me tell you.  

Yesterday, I was to meet the carpenter at my house to look at the next expensive repair.  I had time to get to the gym and home before we met, but it was raining and was to keep raining, and the carpenter was at a doctor's appointment, so I asked if he wanted to push the time back.  His response led me to believe he was one who didn't read carefully, so I didn't know what was going to happen.  I finished up my workout, just a simple two mile hill climb, all aerobic, or as the boys tell me is less "gay", cardio.  

I didn't know Jane Fonda was gay.  

When I got home, I had time to shower.  When I got finished, I looked at my phone.  The carpenter had written something obscure.  I still didn't know if he was coming, so I sat down to some other business, calling doctors, finding appointment times, checking out websites for the V.A.  I even called my ortho to schedule another gel injection in my knee.  One for me!  

By afternoon, it was clear the carpenter was not coming, so I, having not eaten breakfast, decided to get some lunch, and having nothing in my own home now, I needed to go out.  It was late for lunch given the need to make dinner for mother, so I went to the closest place, a Chick-fil-A.  I took my Xterra as it had been sitting in the driveway for a few days and needed driving.

Lunch over, I got back into the Xterra and turned the key.  Nothing.  All the gauges came on and I could play the radio.  Hmm.  I took the car out of park and put it back in.  Nope.  I got out and rocked the car back and forth.  I'm not exactly sure what moving the gear shift and rocking the car does, but it does something.  

I just looked it up.  It does something to the starter.  Whatever.  None of it worked.  I opened the hood to see if the battery cables were tight.  They were.  Nothing to do but call AAA.  

Luckily the weather was nice.  It was cool after the rain and now the sky was blue.  I rolled down the windows and sat back to wait.  

When the AAA truck showed up, I waved it in.  A young black man, a kid, really, got out.  He must have been twelve.  At least twelve.  He did what they all do to check the battery.  It was fine.  

"It must be your starter," he said.  "I'll get a tow truck sent out.  Where do you want to take the car?"

I looked up the address and typed it into his phone, then said, "Let me call the mechanic to let him know we are coming." 

The mechanic told me he was swamped and that the car might have to sit outside. . . did we tap on the starter?  That might work.  

"No. . . I just have the battery guy here right now. . . ."

Behind me the kid said, "Oh, thanks. . . JUST the battery guy."  He was smiling.  

"You don't even know where in the fuck the starter is, so. . . ."

"O.K.  Fair enough."

He didn't and neither did I.  We had spent ten minutes trying to figure it out with no luck.  When the kid was leaving, he said, "I'll be honest with you.  I don't know how long it will be before a tow truck gets here.  Might be an hour or more."

"Great."

So I got back in the car and sat.  But I got lucky, and before long I got a text that the tow truck was on its way.  

The tow truck guy was super friendly.  First thing he did was hand me a bottle of water.  I told him about the kid and the mechanic, and he said, "Let me take a look."  He turned the key and said, yea, it was the starter.  He told me to get into the truck, then he put my car in neutral and pushed it out of the parking spot and into the traffic lane.  He backed his truck up and to my great surprise got it hooked up without ever getting out of the truck.  WTF?  He had an idea.  So he pulled the car out of the parking lot and across the street into another that was not busy.  He lifted the car up and got under it.  For a bit, he too couldn't find the starter.  

"I would think it has to be close to the battery," I said.  It just made sense.  

He looked around some more and just before giving up, he found it half hidden behind a cover.  He told me to get in the car and when I heard him tap on the starter to try it.  

Boom.  That worked.  

The fellow was about fifty years old, maybe, and super friendly.  He didn't have to crawl around on the ground looking for my starter, but it was like a game for him.  He let my car down to the ground and unattached it.  I jumped into the drivers seat and was ready to go when he said, "Don't forget our stuff."  My bag and Leica camera were sitting in his passenger seat.  

"Oh, man, you would have liked this camera."

"I have some nice cameras."

"Do you have a Leica."

"No, but I guess that one cost a couple thousand dollars."

"Try seven."

"I have some nice cameras but they don't cost that much."

He pulled out his phone and began showing me pictures.  Cuba.  And he WAS a good photographer.  His photos were brilliant.  He told me stories about his Cuba trip and I wondered, so I asked him where he was from.

"Puerto Rico." 

He showed me more photos from other trips and told me stories about driving for six weeks across America.  This guy was genuine.  He asked where I lived and told me where he lived.  

"Maybe we'll run into each other," he said.  We didn't live too far apart.

Why I get along best with workers I can't say.  But I do.  I guess I am just not a fan of privileged pricks.  Privileged women. . . O.K.  But not pricks.  I always hear in my head, "You want to eat, you gotta work."  

I decided to drive to the mechanic's shop and tell him since he was only a mile or two away.  He said that tapping the starter might work, but it meant that the starter was going bad, so I would probably need a new one.  I told him I'd make an appointment with him.  I needed to have my brakes done, too.  

The Xterra is costing me more than the car is worth.  

By now, my day was shot.  I had brought the Leica because I wanted to try photography again that afternoon.  I wanted to roam a bit and then go to the cafe and get a hot cup of tea.  

Now. . . my day was over.  I had to get back to my mom.  

Voodoo hoodoo.  I can't get a break.  

I think I'll get a Covid shot today.  I'll wait a couple weeks before I get a flu shot.  Last year I got them together and was deadly sick for a week.  I may feel a little funky this weekend, but I hope it won't be bad.  I take my mother for an epidural injection on Monday.  Fingers crossed.  It it works, she might get off the Percocet.  

That's all I have, I think.  If there is more, it will be lost in time like all things we don't record.  That almost all the events of our days just drift away never to be thought of or remembered again is truly frightening.  What portion of our lives are we truly aware, truly living?  

I'd say if you don't write or record in some way. . . barely any of it at all.  It is just gone one day, as they say, like tears in the rain.  

I'm a freak about it.  

Oh. . . one more thing.  I got a text this morning from my Miami friend.  She had an idea.  She still runs the social media for the Irish bar she worked in when she was here.  Did I want to go in and take some photos for her?  "Just a thought," she said.  

It is very sweet of her.  The thing is. . . I thought about it for a minute.  I know the photos I would take would all be very strange and noir and not at all what the bar would want, but I could take some stupid publicity pictures, too.  

I only thought about it for a bit, though.  I don't want to be the media photographer in my own hometown.  

Still. . . blurry, seedy noir?