Tuesday morning: I unfolded my phone to answer it and it was the dudes from Cedar Avenue Repair with the gnus. "Hey Michael, we're calling about the 87 Escort wagon. It's just the water pump and the timing belt - you're lookin' at about $300." Fair enough. I gave them the green light and told them to call me when it was done.
Wednesday morning: Unfolded cell phone to check new voice message. "Hey Michael, we're calling about the 87 Escort wagon. Got the water pump in, but we found something else.. give us a call!"
Now. I know as much about fixing cars as I know about knitting (I've never knitted before) but I do know this: whenever you get a message like that from any sort of fix-it shop, it pretty much is a tell-tale gare-awn-tee that you're fucked.
Turns out the Death Star overheated to the point of developing a cracked cylinder head or something like that. Which translates in human terms to "one thousand-plus dollars".. YEOWCH.
Thursday: My precious turd on wheels, the 74 Pinto, has been living on my parent's land for the past few months due to wobbly tires I couldn't afford to have fixed at the time. My darling sister and her hubby were oh so kind enough to take it in to the shop to have the front end peeped and see what was wrong with that. 2 front tires and $136.50 later, the Pinto was once again drive-able. YES! Thanks so much, Eesa and Bubby.
Back to the Escort: I passed on the cylinder head thingy for now, 'cause I'm not made of money like that. I'm a musician, for cripes sake. So after work, I hopped the bus for a heartwarming 20 minute ride to the repair shop to retrieve the Death Star. It was a nice bus ride - for the better part of it I was serenaded by the cell phone rings of the girl sitting next to me: it was the most deafening BLEDEEDEDEEP! BLEDEEDEDEEP! I'd ever heard. Evidently her phone doesn't have a vibrate setting. Or an answer button.
Arrived at the repair shop, gave them $379 of my cold, hard earned cash and went out to the freezing cold parking lot to start my car.
*click* ya-ya-ya-ya-ya-yaaaya-ya-ya-ya-ya.... *click* *click*
Awwwwwwwww man. Not today, I said to my steering wheel. I just spent $379 on this sonofabitch pretty much for no reason, 'cause I can't really drive it anywhere when it's running on only 3 cylinders, or so I hear. Dude came out from the garage like a superhero and got it running for me; hearing that car start was music to my ears. I was certain I was going to be bussing back home for a brief moment. I've never wanted to kiss a man before, but after that I realized I guess there's a first time for everything. If only I had some lipstick on me..
So I drove the Death Star home, threw all my band practice gear into my mom's car to return that to her and swap it out for the freshly repaired Pinto. 30 miles and one hour’s worth of rush hour traffic later, I made it to my parent’s abode. Switched my stuff to the Pinto, bid my dear fambly farewell, and off to practice I went, yet another 35 miles out to the Rancho Berkmano Iced Ink Rehearsal Compound with $515 less in the bank.
An arse-kicking practice ensued, and home I finally went to put my feet up, chill out, and engage in entertaining Hollywood trivia chit chat on the phone with a dear fellow fan of such things. "What? The Rock is gay??" "So-and-so is so-and-so's kid? Reeeally?" And so on. Always a good way to end the day if you axsk me.
So yeah, back to being po' again for a while. Gas station coffee in lieu of mochas. Mac-Donalds dolla menu in lieu of the $7.99 Indian buffet. Fresh Scent Tide in lieu of good quality cocaine.
However. The glass is always half full. I have the material love of my life back: the Pinto.
So long as that gets me to the Iced Ink gig in St. Cloud tonight and back, I'll be happy. Or maybe I should say so long as it gets me to St. Cloud. If it craps out on me there, at least I can stay at the St. Cloud State Penitentiary for the night.. I hear the Salisbury steak there is phenomenal.
