S*cks To Be Me (#9): Slip sliding Aaawwaaay

So. Here it is. The pièce de résistance. Or maybe even an extra big pièce de résistance. Or, hell, a whole damn pizza de resistance. With anchovies and whip cream. And a side of slaw. And yes, that does sound revolting. And it is one of the many reasons I didn’t become a professional chef. You can thank me later.

Anyway…as you know, I’m doing a humongous series on my adventures in the last few months of 2008. It is titled Sucks To Be Me. And I’m understating. About the sucks part. I mean, the word “Vortex” springs to mind. Insert images here of whirlpools, undertows, ships going down with all hands, and Bermuda Triangles. With or without UFOs and giant squids. Your choice.

So far, I’ve gotten through Martha’s chest wall injury, my eye surgery, a flooded basement, and getting kicked out of a certain academic program by three professors who shall remain nameless. Except, of course, for a few quick references to Larry, Moe, and Curly. And Tweedledum and Tweedledee and Tweedledumber. And The Three Walking Analogs Of Rectal Gonorrhea. But, otherwise, my lips are sealed. I’m good like that.

Today, though, we are going to get to the final little chapter of my 2008 saga. It involves ice.

Lots of ice.

Lots and lots and LOTS . . .of freaking… ice.


*

Okay, so when we left off last time, we’d just had an ice storm. I had rushed outside to move the cars before Tom . . . the really nice guy we hired to plow the drive . . . arrived.

You see, as I said last time, we live near the top of a little hill where (in effect) three different roads intersect. The city snowplows coming from three different directions drop their snow . . . here. Which is how we normally end up with drifts of the stuff in our driveway that are “as high as an elephant’s eye.” Or, at least as its scrotum. Which is really more appropriate to the story. At least, when you think about it.

Most of the time, I go out with my handy little shovel and whittle that all away . . . after six or seven days of backbreaking labor. But, this time, because of the eye surgery and a few other facts (like realizing that I’m, shudder, 52 and not 25), I allowed Martha to convince me (she only had to bash me with the snow shovel two or three times) to hire someone with a plow truck to do it for us.

Ah, but the kicker is that to let Tom plow the drive, we have to get the cars out of it first. This usually means my hurriedly shoveling enough of the snow away so that I can back our cars out and then park them on the street while he does the rest.

Now, some more background. We have three cars. Two of these are Hondas. The other is a sporty little Toyota that used to be Martha’s pride and joy. She’s a car fanatic and she particularly loved her little Celica. The problem was that it is no longer easy for her to get into and out of it, so, a while ago we decided to get a more sensible vehicle and sell her old one.

That was the plan. It has been sitting in the driveway ever since. Somehow we never get around to selling it. Funny thing about that. And I’ve caught Martha standing in the driveway at mid-night, petting the car, and telling it not to worry because mama’s right here.

So, that’s the three cars.

I run outside to move them.

Then, I stop running.

However, I do NOT stop moving.


*

Everything . . . EVERYTHING … is covered with a sheet of ice. It had sleeted during the night and now the world is doing a pretty good impression of Ice Station Zebra. The sidewalk is under about a inch of the stuff and I seem to be drifting along, gently, toward the curb.

Well, “gently” may be a bit much. More like . . . well, did you ever hear that joke about the dancing chicken? The one they put on the hot plate? (“What do you think makes the chicken dance?”) Sort of like that. But with fewer feathers and more squawking.

*

I finally managed to come to a stop ‘round abouts the lamppost. I then take careful stock of the situation.

Oh, I say. Gosh, I add. Then I say something else. I will not record what it was. Suffice to say that it made some of the ice melt. And turned the air blue. And sent mothers rushing to cover the ears of the innocent young children. Who, of course, already used words like that and were texting their friends about the boring guy who didn’t even know how to swear properly.

Anyway, I finally made it to the cars and, after much bashing of ice off doors, I get them open and began my moving operations. Mine is a CRV and has four wheel drive, so it was pretty easy for me to get the thing out of the drive way and parked on the street. Martha’s had new snow tires, so it did pretty well, too.

That left . . . the Celica.

I got in. It sneered at me. I started it. It chortled. I started to back out. It began to giggle.

*

It was when I backed all the way out and was in the street that I realized something interesting was happening.

To wit… I was sliding.

I don’t mean that I was sliding forward. I don’t mean I was sliding backward.

I mean, I was sliding sideways.

I mean, the car was sliding SIDEWAYS…

I mean, I’m in the car and it is sliding In The Street . . . SIDEWAYS.

As in, the driver’s side door is even now headed toward the fence of the guy who lives down where the street curves to the left.

As in, yes folks, step right up… I’m screwed.


*

Now, I’ve been driving cars on the ice when they have decided to skid nose first into something.

And, I’ve been driving cars on ice when they have decided to fish tail their way into oblivion.

But I have never . . . ever . . . been sitting STILL in a car, and then had it slide. Sideways.

If you’ve never tried it, I suggest you give it a shot. It is a wonderfully quick way to get religion.

*


Somehow, I managed to get the car slowed down enough to point its nose down hill and toward the main street. Then, I managed to drift it to the intersection and make a right hand turn.

Crisis averted, right?

Well, no. ‘Cause, of course, I still have to get the car back UP the hill.

Okay . . . I’m not a great driver on snow. I’m not used to it. It’s particularly annoying because Martha drives in snow really, really well. So much for my macho image. Well, not that I had much of one anyway, but, it’s the principle of thing.

But getting back to my story…

I have to think this out. There is a short side of the hill and a long. I’ve just come down the short. But, it’s pretty steep and I don’t think I’ll be able to get the little car up it again . . . at least, not given the ice.

But if I drive down the main street a block, and make a right turn, then I’m back on our street and the Long Side of the hill. If I can get moving fast enough maybe I’ll be able get back up to our house.

Brilliant, I think.

I go down the block, I make my turns, I get into position, and put my foot on the gas!

By God! I find myself moving up the hill like a Celica-stallion! I’m sliding a little here and there, but I’m doing it! By God, I’m doing it!

And then…

This little old lady lives down the way. She is 339 years of age. And three quarters. She drives a huge Detroit beast of that sort that my son and his friends used to call a “Pimpmobile.” She has never been known to go faster than 25 mph. On the freeway. In the high speed HOV lane.

It is this exactly at this moment that she elects to exit her driveway. Into the road. In front of me. At a snappy six or seven miles an hour. And then, of course, she begins to slide backwards. Towards me.

At the last second I managed to get my car off to one side . . . well, technically, into a snow bank, but who’s being technical? She drifted on past me down the hill. She gave me a friendly little wave.

I think I heard later she finally stopped somewhere around Providence, Rhode Island. I understand she’s bought a condo there.


*

Okay, I say to myself. We’ll try this again.

I get the car dug out of the snow bank, drift back to the bottom of the hill, and once again, start the dash up the ski slope … I mean, the road.

And once more, I’m doing it! I’m doing it! I’m dashing along like Santa on Steroids! I’m almost to the top of the hill…

And then…

You know the guy on your street whose got no neck but lots of derriere? The guy who bought the pit bull so he’d have the meanest dog on the block? The guy who has a gun rack over his Jacuzzi? The guy who bought a four-wheel/four-door stretch luxury pickup truck (with DVD player) that he needs like a hole in the head because he never takes it anywhere ‘cept maybe the Mall? The guy who you’d like to ask, sorta in passing, Say, Just How Small Is Your Penis, Anyway?

Well, as I’m going UP the hill, our version of that guy in his shiny four-wheel drive is coming DOWN the hill, at high speed, taking his half of the road from the middle….

Wanna guess who ends up in the snow bank again? Wanna? Huh? Wanna?


*

Anyway, I finally make it back up the hill. I get there just about the time Tom, the plow guy, arrives.

He watches me fish tail into a spot sort of in front of our house. I roll down my window. He rolls down his window. “Like to a buy a car?” I ask. “Cheap?”

He shudders. “Think I’ll pass,” he says.

*

With Tom’s help, and quite a bit of sand, I finally get the Celica in place. Then, the driveway gets plowed. And everyone’s happy. Or, happier, anyway.

I stagger back into the house. Martha meets me and says, “You know, in the all the time you were out there, I didn’t see a single City snowplow or sand-truck. I think you ought to call the department of public works and complain.”

For a moment, I consider it. Then, I realize I already know what they’ll say if I do. They’ll apologize and then add, “We tried to get up your street an hour ago, but some damn fool in a Celica was sliding down it sideways and blocked the way.”

No, I think. I’ve suffered enough. Besides, we have a bottle of tequila in the cabinet. And it’s calling my name.

*

So, that was (mostly) the last of my adventures for 2008. There were a couple of more snowstorms, but no more sleet. Christmas came and we enjoyed it hugely. New Year’s followed, and we bid the old year farewell.

Actually, it wasn’t so much bidding it farewell as hoping we’d never see anything quite like it again. But, then, it probably doesn’t want to see us, either.

But, since then, things have been quite a bit quieter. My new bionic eye works fine. Martha’s gotten over the chest wall injury. The basement’s dry and the appliances work. I’m teaching and writing . . . though, I’m still trying to figure out what to do about my former dissertation committee. I had thought of inciting a crazed mob to grab torches and pitchforks and head up to the castle to scrag the good doctors Von Frankenstein. But, alas, all the lynch mobs I know are heading over to Wall Street. All those bankers, you see, taking bonuses…

I guess I can understand. It’s all a question of priorities.


*

So, that was the end of 2008. At least for me.

But…

Let me be serious for half a moment. I called this series Sucks To Be Me. But, come, it was hardly that bad. The eye surgery was scary, but it proved benign. Martha’s injury was painful, but, over time, she recovered. The appliances were (briefly) an inconvenience. But, they were only an inconvenience. I can survive washing dishes. My dissertation committee did me real economic and emotional harm. But, in the end, they were no more significant than any schoolyard bully. Perhaps it is true what they say about the banality of evil. Perhaps small evils are the most banal of all.

All in all, not so bad…

At least I do not know famine and slaughter, as does so much of the world. At least I do not have AIDS/HIV, the way that millions have here and abroad. At least I am not in a war zone.

Which makes me wonder . . .what would it take . . . how much effort would it be . . . to make my problems the worst the world knows?

It may be that the price cannot be paid. The effort would be too vast. The intent is too utopian.

And yet…

And yet . . .

Would it not be a lovely thing to try?

*

Onward and upward.



















Copyright© 2009 Michael Jay Tucker