Triple A

There are at least five things I ought to be doing right now other than blogging, but a promise is a promise, and it ought to be kept, especially when that means you can procrastinate doing laundry.

Today has been a bizarre day. Tim had oral surgery this morning and he got put under for it. I was a little nervous about that. When I went in to see him after it was over, it was strange to see him there but not there, his eyes stuttering as he tried to track the Doctor's face. He didn't talk for a while--talking is not his favorite mode of communication anyway--but he was ready to jump right up, in spite of the fact that he was bobbing and weaving as he tried to move.

We walked into the house and he promptly threw up and, to his bleary bewilderment, lost bladder control. Glad I didn't send him back to school (just kidding! I probably would NEVER have done that.) I don't mind the work of caring for invalids, but I don't like the people I love to be something other than themselves. He's feeling a little more Tim now, reading a book and banging on the wall with a lacrosse stick when he needs my help.

I went into school the other day to help Tim with writing and got the tail end of a pep talk his teacher was giving the class. He was just finishing telling a story about how his day had started (it seemed to involve mechanical failure of a car, a downpour, and a fair bit of walking), but told the kids that he'd seen a bumper sticker that said "No Bad Days" as he was trying to get himself to school. He asked them what they thought that meant.

My favorite answer was (can you guess?) Tim's. He said , "It means, 'You decide.'" After we had finished up Tim's writing and the kids had gone to PE, I was cleaning out Tim's desk (this is a job he sometimes needs help with) when the teacher came back. I asked what had happened, and he told me that his car had died--run out of gas, he thought--several MILES from school, that he had a class to attend (teach?) after school until 9 pm and that his other car was in the shop. But no bad days!

It took me ten minutes or so, but I finally extracted the key from his reluctant hand, grabbed a gas can from the garage, implored Teri to go with me (okay, it didn't take much persuasion--she's incredibly busy painting her house, but she fairly sizzles with jump in and do good spirit) and set off to find the car.

Now, I was not as optimistic as Tim's teacher that the car would turn out to be merely out of gas. He had confided a) that the 'car' was actually a Volkswagen Westphalia, b) that he was unfamiliar with the gas gauge because the car was a recent purchase, c) that he had bought it from a graduating college student, and d) would we please overlook without prejudice the marijuana-promoting bumpersticker affixed to the back since it belonged to the previous owner?

I thought (and Teri agreed) that if you buy a Westphalia from a college kid on weed, you get what you pay for. Which is a long walk to school. But this teacher is a great guy, dedicated, intelligent, hard working, and very much loved by both our kids, and a mercy mission makes more sense than plates full of cookies, so we both prayed that somehow gas really was the problem and went to work.

Teri, wearing paint clothes and a take-charge expression, grabbed the gas can while I got the gas key out of the ash tray. (Aside: keeping your gas key in the ash tray is the same as not bothering with a gas key, except that it increases the chances of dropping the thing down into the innards of the dash. Anyway.) The gas can spout was a tricky, and neither of us had used it before. It had sort of a retracting cover which we couldn't figure out how to pull back and the gas seemed to be supposed to come out the sides.

Finally Teri pulled the cover back with one hand and holding the gas can in the other, stuck the nozzle in and poured. Gas gushed out all over her hands and feet and splashed into her eye. She set down the gas can and calmly but forcefully asked for water. I ran around ineffectually, first looking for a water source (a mud puddle?) and finally settling on the box of wipes I keep in the car.

Once Teri's sight was restored we were back to trying to force gas into the Westphalia. After Teri had been doused a couple more times, I called Tom (fortunately without generating static electric sparks.)

"Hi," I said. "Teri and I are here with Mr. Smith's car and without asking for any explanations could you please tell us how the gas can works?"

Long pause. "Who's Mr. Smith?" he asked.

Finally he divulged that the gas can works on faith. You cannot see how the gas will get from the can to the tank, but if you shove it in there and pour, somehow the transfer becomes true. We tried this method. It worked as advertised. Until Teri pulled the can out.

As it turned out, there was a stopper in the end of the gas can spout. Had we seen it in the first place, we could have pulled it out and simply poured. Too bad we didn't, because as Teri removed the can, the edge of the stopper caught on the inside of the spring loaded fuel inlet cover and stayed caught half inside, half outside the gas tank.

The moment stretched painfully as the possibilities became clear.

"Ah, Mr. Smith....? Though we only wanted to help, unfortunately...."

I asked Teri if she thought it was appropriate for me to pray. She asked me why I hadn't been praying all along.

Clearly, in order to get the thing OUT, we had to open the spring loaded cover without dropping the stopper, but the space was pretty cramped. Teri clutched the stopper while I ran around looking for sticks...screw drivers...pliers...

"Do you have a chopstick in your car?" Teri called. I came up with a live-strong bracelet, a pair of sunglasses, and a capless pen.

After several abortive attempts, at last I pulled and twisted while Teri poked (with the sunglasses ear piece) and whew! Our prayers were answered and we hyperunventilated.

Teri's VW experience being more recent than mine (though I recall revving the rabbit frantically at every stoplight with the best of them), she got behind the wheel. The Westphalia belched several clouds of exhaust and miraculously started up.

We walked into the school together, smelling like a well-prepped arson site, and presented Mr. Smith with the key.

He walked up enthusiastically but was forced to take a step backwards as the fumes overcame him. He gave us a sincere if watery-eyed smile and gasped out, "I'm so sorry! You smell like gasoline!"

Which is all the thanks a couple of bored middle-aged stay at home moms hungry for adventure really need. I think Teri muttered that next time she's bringing HER gas can.