Went to Overflow hoping to say for an hour. But after I reached into the second hour I got nervous. What's taking them so long? My God, do I have to pay $160? And what happens if they find nothing? Worse, what happens if they've found a lot of things? I had some writing to do, but as the second hour was winding down (and, admittedly, with the first day's showing of A Good Day To Die Hard coming up soon I wanted to know if I could get my car back to get to the theater in time), I bolted and walked back to the shop.
And they found ... nothing. He cleaned out the distributor cap for moisture, which is a possible cause of the misfiring. The problems described would be an engine thing, but besides the cap, nothing was wrong -- no vacuum leaks, no bad fuel injectors, no spark plugs.
Honestly, those two hours of imagining that I was liquidating my stocks willy-nilly just so I can pay him for his time was gone. At that moment I was so happy to just know my car was OK, and that it probably was just the weather warming up. I'll take it; now, how much do I pay you?
"Just tip me," he says.
Whoa, just tip you? First of all, what does that mean? And second, once I realized that he wasn't going to charge me for the time, how much do I pay him? I wound up emptying my wallet. I wanted to keep some money on me, but if that is what he's going to "charge" me in lieu of a full two hours, I'll give him everything in there. Unfortunately, it was only $19. I would give him, oh, $40 for his time, but that's all I had, and luckily, he seemed at least OK with it.
Nineteen dollars for a clean bill of health when it could've cost me $160? I'll kill for these guys. Van's Automotive Service, close to the U. Even though it's in a huge strip mall of car repair shops, I recommend them highly.
---
2) After wondering if I should go all the way to St. Paul and check out the clearance items at Macy's, I did the right thing and spent the entire afternoon, almost six hours, at the library just a couple miles from me yesterday. Dug into all those receipts that ask you to complete customer satisfaction surveys in exchange for a chance to enter drawings to win money or gift cards.
While doing that I received a phone call from someone whom I've spoken to but has never called me, in fact someone I never expected would ever call me: ******e, ***e*'s friend, the one in whose those two doubled teamed in what I am coining The Best Fucking Day Of My Goddamn Life.
I pick up and say hello, but I hear no answer. Instead, I think I hear ***e* talking -- not to me, but to someone else, maybe a friend, maybe someone she asks for something. Great, she butt-dialed me, again. ***e* has done this once, maybe twice before. I actually once "received" a voicemail from her, and all it was was, no joke, more than 20 minutes of eavesdropping on faint voices, hers the only one I could discern. But I had time; I didn't mind listening in to a life being lived if she didn't know she called me and didn't hang up the phone.
But all of a sudden I hear, "Hello?" And it wasn't ***e*. I asked, "Who is this?'' And the other end of the line went, "Who is this?" and hung up. That must've been the friend, ******e. She sounded pissed. Oh well.
But a minute later I see my phone light up again. "Who is this?" the voice on the other end asked. I gave her my name and addressed her by her real name, "[name redacted], is that you?" And she didn't freak out, she said, "Yes." Then I made sure she knew who was, reminded her that I'm ***e*'s friend, we hung out at her place about five months ago, blah-blah-blah, and she sounded like she knew who I was. And, lucky for her and for me, this was a great time to tell me that she is hosting another party at her place. And, unlucky for her and for me, I told her I probably wouldn't make it because I'm still broke. But ******e sounded cool with it.
And then she gave the phone over to ***e*. Missed that girl and her booty for so long. Turns out they're running errands ... while high, of course. So we talked for a little bit before they ate lunch. She apologized for not having a phone number even though I've asked for it, but she does have it memorized. I asked her if I could hang out with them the next time they do this. And then something I've been meaning to ask her for some time -- where are the pants she volunteered to sew? She accidentally ripped them even further when she tried to stitch them up. They're somewhere in her place, and she'll try again. "I like those pants on you," she said -- "And I like them off you."
She's a pervert like that; that's what I love about her the most. She sounds like she means it. And even if she doesn't, she knows what I like. I have no one like her in my life. That sentence got me so hot, I masturbated to thinking about that tonight.
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3) For some fucking reason My Fucking Father wants me to watch television out in the open a little more, instead of inside my room, even though there's a fully functional TV in my room. I used to do that, but a long time ago, while I was watching a music countdown show featuring radio DJ Scott Shannon (a guy who I just saw on this show called Dish Nation), My Fucking Father marched up the stairs, feet stomping, and yelled at me for watching TV right there in the living room so the show could filter down and vibrate the master bedroom door. I'll never forget how he fuckin' yelled at me; I don't think I ever watched TV late at night outside since.
Till now. Things have changed, or rather, My Fucking Father decided he was going to feel something different. And, what the hell, I need to continue to have a roof over my head. So in time for the 10 o'clock news, I go outside to the living room, the same living room where My Fucking Father went off lo those many years ago, and watched the TV.
About 40 minutes later, while trying to watch Letterman through the sketchy reception, My Father comes up. And, so quietly as to make me think he's talking only to himself, he says, "Good." And for good measure, as he put both feet on the top step, he repeated it again: "Good."
I have to be honest: Hearing Father say that about me watching TV outside made me happy. I'm happy that he's happy. All I've wanted from him was approval, that's all.
---
So maybe I should not have risked the good vibes when I opened the downstairs refrigerator door and saw that My Father drank a part of the can of Sierra Mist I put in there without putting another one in there. I whispered, "Goddammit!" probably loud enough for Mother, who was in her office this late in the night (it was past midnight), to hear.
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