So the truck seems to be dying. It has creaked and popped, in the back right wheel well, for the last five months. Nothing has fallen off. No flames have erupted from anywhere. But it keeps popping and the mechanic has twice been unable to diagnose it.
Then, on the 23rd, I come out from work and find the truck stone cold dead. I'd left the lights on--something I've mostly trained myself out of, as it used to be an, apparently, unconsciously cherished habit--and it had not survived the cold night. It's really at moments like these that you see the intrinsic nature of automobiles: 2 tons of inert metal. A co-worker gave me a jump and I was on my way...till the card died in a turn lane two blocks away. With the help of few fellows, I pushed the car off to the curb and thus commenced the Car Drama, in this case the cast being myself, a friendly young tow truck driver, a young man screaming at me from his speeding car (for the anti-war sticker?), a harried car parts clerk, and a beautiful blue-and-gold macaw. The upshot was a new battery and a car making it back to the city. Did I feel the story, the sage, the trauma was over? Deep down, under the layer of denial, under the muscular contractions, under the gauzy memories of past car debacles, lay a crusty layer of doubt.
Which turned out to be the reality, as the next day, en route to my body worker (that, incidentally, is not something I would have said 10 years ago), the truck's battery monitor read about half, and coming out of my session, having hoped to drive it to the mechanic around the corner, found it again expressing its essentialism. So, again through the Drama, with a different cast. And this was the day Heather and I were planning on driving up to Sacramento to commence Christmas doing with my family.
And whose fault was this? Who was hoping the half-lit battery light on the dash was just another symptom of the car's age, rather than a sign of impending drama? The elves? No, twas moi.
So, being utterly at fault for the situation and for us being stranded in S.F. (or facing a big car rental fee or a bus ride), I was surprised and actually quite moved by the mercy that came from Heather (who said that the dim light meant something) and from James (who eventually loaned us his car to drive up to Sac). They both could have, quite justifiably, raked me over the Coals of Repentance, but instead they talked about their own vulnerability to acting stupid and being in denial.
Though a fairly trivial instance of mercy, it felt like a genuine dose of that good stuff nonetheless. Not being a religious person (Mom used to like to call us "happy heathens"), I've certainly had such experiences, but hardly been accustomed to frame them as grace. But that's what it felt like, being given something I really didn't have any rights to, didn't do anything to acquire. That's pretty heady stuff, eh? So, sweetness and depth out of what is a pretty prosaic event. Thank you, little sick, powder blue truck from Japan.
