Monday's Child of Woe

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.