So it's a Monday morning, naturally, in the
middle of the worst winter we've seen in a decade, and the roads are covered
with a thick layer of compacted snow which makes the tires about as useful as
sled rails. After spending twenty minutes brushing six inches of fresh white
powder off the car, then another five trying to back the car over the berm left
by the plow which came through the neighborhood an hour ago, I'm in a bit of a
rush because now I'm running way behind schedule and my brain is rapidly scanning
through the list of tasks to accomplish before the nine o'clock staff meeting. Checking each one off in my mind's-eye list as the morning radio spouts meaningless left-wing
dogma from NPR -- I only leave it on that station because they play classical
music most of the time -- my hands and feet dance in perfect synchronicity to
the orchestral strains playing pianissimo
in the background of my thoughts, an unconscious but beautiful choreography of
clutch and gear, brake and gas.
Then just as I round the first curve , a
cacaphony of squealing erupts from under the hood like a hundred cats who had crawled
up into the engine compartment for warmth were suddenly and inexorably caught
by the thoughtless machinations of belt, pulley, piston and spark. And all the precious, vital impulses that
were starting to organize themselves inside my mind have now exploded into
random patterns of panic and my only lucid thought is a question: Will the car
make it long enough to get me to work? And as soon as I've thought it, the incredulous
stupidity of it washes over me in a shameful, frightened flood. What kind of
idiot would try to drive five miles to work in a broken car rather than just returning
to the warmth and safety of the home he's barely left? But there is no accounting
for intelligence in moments like this. Indeed, there's hardly a Monday in my
experience where intelligent thought is occurs before noon.
A moment later, the choice is taken from me.
The squealing comes to a dreadful crescendo. There is an ear-piercing 'snap',
and then a nothing but the puzzled, subdued rumble of an engine which knows
something horrible has occurred but can't quite figure out what it is. My mind,
efficient machine in its own right, is ahead of the game, quickly running
through the possibilities of survival and ticking off the possible avenues of
escape. Obviously, a belt has broken; and judging by the sudden inability of
the steering wheel to affect the direction of the wheels without a monumental
effort on the part of my arms, it is equally obvious that it is the power
steering pump belt. Oh, well, I can live without power steering. I drove a car
for years without power steering! For one microsecond, my panic subsides. And
then another microsecond's consideration of this fact leads to yet another
significant yet sobering fact: that belt that drives the power steering pump is
the same belt which drives the alternator. Which means the engine is now
running on battery power alone. And battery power alone is not sufficient to
get the car down the road. In a few moments, the battery will be drained and
the car will die. The panic returns. I must return home. Now.
At the next intersection, I pull a U-turn,
and am forcefully reminded that it has been many years now since I drove that
car without power steering. My arms are pulled from their virtual Barca
lounger, spilling the remote control and the chips from their laps, and forced
to do real work for the first time since they don't remember when. Spinning
that wheel is like telling oxen they're going the wrong way on the Oregon
Trail. By the time I'm back on the straight and narrow path back home, my
shoulders are calling the physical therapist for an appointment and my wrists
are filing for Worker's Comp.
Disregarding the anatomical mutiny as best I
can, I make it back to the house and over the berm and find a spot in the
driveway where, once the key is released, the car falls to sudden and
irrevocable silence. In that moment of
peace and tranquility, the first thought that occurs to me, in a rush of
unanticipated joy, is: Looks like I'll be working from home today! And I'm both
pleased and excited at the prospect because any day spent working on the car is
far better than a day spent at the office. In fact, I'm looking forward to
casting aside the typical day of office politics and panic to relax under the
hood of the car with a wrench in one hand and a can of WD-40 in the other. I
can feel the smile starting to creep across my face. Ah, if only it were warm
enough that I could do the work outside in a fresh summer breeze! The daydream
fills my mind's eye for a moment and I can almost feel the rays of the sun
pouring across my back as my mental avatar leans in across the engine and starts
to loosen the bolts which hold the elements of the engine together.
Then the creeping cold of the cooling cockpit
reminds me that it is not summer, it is not warm, and there are many things to
do before I can even begin to make repairs to the car. Plans to make, schedules
to adjust, office work to endure. It will be awhile before I will find the time
to get the car running again.
But I will find that time.