I managed to get my suddenly ailing vehicle to limp back to the house, where we prayed together for the wisdom to make the right maintenance decisions and the proper custody choice for the floor mats, if we should part.
Then, I phoned my wife.
"It doesn't look good," I whispered. "It's lost a lot of fluids."
"If the repairs cost $2000 or more, I say we use that money on a new ride for you," she said.
"But--" I butted.
"Something economical."
"But--"
"Something economical that operates on hay. You'd look mighty cute on a burro. We'll get you matching hats. Ear holes. Christmas is coming. Maybe Santa will bring you a flyswat."
"But--"
"Racing stripe? Okay. Maybe a gnat swat function on it, too. You go wild."
I called the wrecker service and ordered a rescue. I also tried to get a musical montage of memories going in my head with film clips, snapshots, and the cupholder, but it wouldn't work for me. I ate an imaginary donut.
Some time passed and I found myself small and alone in the lane, waving good-bye to my wheels tucked up on a flatbed truck.
"Come back to me," I said bravely, shifting to a grandstanding pose Barbra Streisand doesn't use anymore, "YOU COME BACK TO ME!!"
Forty-five minutes later, my telephone rang. I stopped mid-"swing low, sweet chariot, comin' for to carry me home" to answer.
Twelve seconds after that, lightness and sweetness reentered my life and restarted my heart.
Yes. Heart of gold. I left that part out. I am duly corrected.
"Thank you, kind sir," I said to the mechanic. "And a glorious good day to you, mon ami."
With a parting "Happy gearbox additives," I hung up the receiver and sat down to send Donna this very email:
The car is fixed. A wire or line was pulled loose, probably by something on a rough road.
Drum roll, please.
Twenty-five dollars.
Let's buy a BIGGGG TeeVee!
Tow truck...
Drum roll, please.
Forty-five dollars.
I want Tang!!
