Hello, friends!
There was something that happened to me late last year that I ought to have contributed to my blog; I'm over it enough now that I'd like to share it with the lot of you! Your time and patience, and this I cannot stress enough, is of the utmost value to me.
So, in the words of Mr. Keenan: Alrighty then. Picture this if you will..."
I had a truck, this beautiful, 1993 Ford Ranger (beauty being within the eye of the beholder goes without saying on this one), of which became my second car after the Civic died in the great Blown Motor Event of Summer 2013 (let this be a lesson to all: utilizing a 20+ year old car as a delivery service vehicle for an establishment like Jimmy Johns is borderline insanity, it is by comparison a 55 year old healthy man taking on chain smoking and binge drinking, there should be no surprise he's dead in a few years). This Ranger was plagued by various vehicular hick-ups and a slew of issues that turned it into a really expensive lemon. But, be that as it may, I really, reaaally loved that truck.
The time came for us to part ways, I needed to become smarter with my choice of second hand vehicles, maybe even looking into the option of financing, so I started identifying some of the more obvious problems it had, fixing it, and putting up for sale on the Listcraig's (there's absolutely no reason for me to spell it that way, it's just funny to me). My former roommate, Mr. Fernandito as I like to call him, has a 2002 Honda Civic coupe; a sexy, forest-green, 5-speed bad-assery with what? Mother. Fucking. Air. Conditioning; it was not a luxury to turn my nose up to.
Mr. Fernandito was asking for fifteen hundred, a novel price for a car in its condition and age, I shook his hand, and told him "within a few weeks, the truck will be sold, the money will be yours, and all will be well with the world".
Yes.
Indeed it would.
Mr. Fernandito was making plans to relocate to Puerto Rico, and I wanted to be the guy to lift the Civic off his hands. I knew it wouldn't take much to get the Civic to my standards, given especially, that it had a working HVAC system, hell as far as I was concerned it would inevitably be the wisest choice I could make financially. So by the time he was ready to make the move back home, Christmas was right around the corner: boy, was it beginning to look a lot like something.
The Ranger was up on Listcraig's, looking pretty as fuck in all of her under-powered, Inline-4 glory, and within two weeks; a buyer.
"Hello!"
She said, in an as eloquent a greeting could be poised to a would-be salesman of goods.
"My name is <redacted>, and I'm interested in taking a look at your truck!"
Let's stop there for a moment. Already I'm beyond elated to have the truck sold in such a short amount of time, allowing me a chance to get over the vehicle-less hump I despise ever so greatly. So I glossed over the email I received from Listcraig's through my phone, and went on with the rest of my day at work with a brimming smile on my face.
Later that night, I sat at my computer to read and subsequently re-read the email:
"I'm the creative director for an advertising firm in Canada, we're shooting a video in your area this weekend and we'd like to rent your truck for the two days!"
So at first, after catching myself, I was only slightly heart broken coming to the realization that I may not be able to have the truck sold, and that <redacted> wouldn't be the little lamb's new owner.
"But...wait" I then thought aloud, "she's the creative director of a company in Canada; she's a creative director; she's my fucking ticket out of here!!!"
Immediately, I replied to her email, and for one week, we texted (apparently Google spell-check doesn't like the word "texted"... but is OK with "gonna"...hmm) back and forth, fine tuning details about how, and when, and where, it was all gonna go down. I began ignoring the "sale" of truck, and focused on the "sale" of me; what would be the odds of her being my opportunity to get out of this <redacted> of a life, and begin my career as an artist? What would be the odds that this opportunity would want MY fucking Ranger?!
It was beginning to look a lot like something.
Two days prior to our scheduled day of transaction, I spoke with my roommate <redacted> whom is a very talented mechanic, to identify this lingering ignition problem that has plagued the Ranger since I bought it; off an on, the truck would start fine for weeks, then all of a sudden, not. My work schedule doesn't allow for a lot of free time during the work week, so I begged him to utilize his scanner to figure out what the problem is, what part I need to buy, and if I can install it without the need of taking it to the shop. By this time, Mr. Fernandito was already home in Rico, and I was using his Civic, with permission, in preparation to buy it and sell my truck.
The day before the schedule date of transaction, my mechanic roommate finally got around to testing the truck's ignition issues, and narrowed the problem to the Ignition Control Module; apropos. It was a $150 unit, and required a wrench and I forgot the size of the bolt head but it's like, mad small yo.
The night before, Florida decides it drop to the mid 50's (Fahrenheit); with respect to my Northeastern brethren; tis but a scratch in the eyes of cold. But for a Floridian living in 38 Celsius (for my European peeps), that was a very real and very COLD twenty degree difference. I begged my boss to let me leave work one hour early to pick up the part at the only Advance Auto within a fucking 30 mile radius of my house that had it, go to FedEx Kinko's to print the waiver, AND I needed an extension cable to use my other roommate's flood lamp to work in the dark.
I left work at 8 p.m., got to work on the truck by 10 p.m..
It was beginning to look a lot like something.
One hour into the repair, the time came to test the newly added device. At this time, my life would go one of two ways: option A? Nowhere. Figure out the rest.
Part installed, connector pins re-fucking-connected, fingers crossed.
Dead start.
Head scratched, fear sets in.
My mechanic roommate comes out and checks everything, to make sure I didn't FUCK it up like I did on the Starter Solenoid many months before.
Everything is cleared, he runs the electrical test once more; all green.
Dead Start (to my non mechanically inclined peeps, by the oxymoronic term that is "Dead Start", it essentially means the engine is turning over, but is not igniting, it just makes that ju ju ju ju ju ju noise.)
Head scratched, fear becomes real.
I switched out the new part for the old part, now two hours into the repair, wondering, what the hell, right?
Starts.
Head scratched, shoulders shrugged.
I close up shop, pack away my tools, and proceeded to take the truck around my block to make sure she's good for my 8 a.m. date with the would be buyer.
Half way around the block, there's a loud BANG! And the truck rolls to a silent and dead stop for the last time ( just as a hindsight insert here: after I junked it, I was informed that the starter motor blew up).
Dead Start.
It was beginning to look a lot like unadulterated hatred and despair for EVERY. FUCKING. THING.
So it's now midnight, the temperature has dropped considerably, and alone I sit in the road with my dead truck that is no longer starting, two blocks away from my house. I get out, turn the key into the ignition enough to unlock the steering wheel, and I push.
Sweat barreling down my face against the now frigid cold, my shirt soaked through and exposed to the atmosphere, and my hoodie doing very little to guard against the cold, luckily enough that sonofabitch was pretty lite, didn't take a considerable amount of energy to move, and for the first time in as many years as I have lived in the state of Florida; thank, fucking, GOD, for flat roads.
By 1 a.m. I've gotten the truck back atop my driveway, flood light blazing and tools in-tow, with only the will to succeed and a silent prayer on my breath; by 2 a.m., to no avail, and I decided to be a man about this situation, and contact <redacted> now, and not wait until the morning where she would be even more disappointed.
My friends, I must really, really do my best to convey just the absolute depth of pain that phone call was for me. It lasted only 30 seconds, but the overwhelming sensation of sadness, guilt, regret, hopelessness, and any other adjective better suited for this scenario, was numbing. I sat alone outside for nearly half an hour.
Beaten.
I came to, ate the second half of Subway sandwich I bought earlier that day for lunch, and slowly swallowed, along with the soggy bread, flavorless meat, and sodden lettuce, the absolute depth of pain.
This all transpired well over a month ago, in a lot of ways, there were many things I did wrong, like not coming clean with the condition of the Ranger from the get go, rather than thinking I could pull off a miracle repair the night before it was all gonna go down. I should've thought of a contingency should such a thing transpire, I should've done a lot of things differently, but man, I really really tried to do this right. But sometimes, it is what it is.
It's now nearing the end of February, Issue 3 of Periphery is underway and making great time for its summer release, my freelance book is underway and due to be completed in a few weeks, my collaboration with the cover artist of Issue Two is underway, also, and should prove to be a spectacular book!
All in all, things are at their darkest before the dawn. But what scares me, is that the night has not ended.
Hm.
