I realize that
expecting someone wearing cranberry chinos and paisley button down, baking brie
en croute to resolve your automotive dilemma is typically far-fetched but if you
know me, you know that I’ve got plenty of tricks up my color-coordinated
sleeve.
I’m standing in
the kitchen by the oven waiting for my brie to finish so I can drizzle raspberry preserves
in preparation for the return of Downton Abbey. A fabulous British TV show is an excuse for fancy snacks, n'est ce pas? I was removing them from the oven when my father walks in and at the
end of a string of profanities asks if Greg was in town. Greg, as you may remember, is one of the few
of my friends (and on my management team at work) to rate a passing grade from
my father. Granted The Dad likes most of
my friends but prefers Greg based mostly on the fact that he looks as if he is
a Hell’s Angel on his way to court when he’s dressed for work. Dustin’s
corner of the federal government is a well-dressed corner, people. I’m making the world more attractive one
pocket square at a time. Your tax dollars at work.
He is one of the nicest people I know but his size and girth are intimidating
to say the least.
When I ask why, I
am met with an exasperated, “Just find out if he’s busy.”
When I insist on
knowing the reason to bother someone on a Sunday, The Dad says, “My truck won’t
crank. The batt-rys dead.”
My response, “Well
I can fix that” was met with a look similar to the one Lulu the dog has when
she sees herself in the mirror: confusion followed by amusement.
I ignore the look
and state, “Give me a minute to drizzle the preserves and I’ll get your jumper
cables”. He stares and asks what brie
is.
My response was “Fancy
cheese you don’t like so put it down”, as he tried to pretend he hadn’t just
burned his fingers trying to grab a piece before I could stop him.
Now I realize that
you may be skeptical that someone who owns as many pairs of colored chinos as I
(with a propensity to say “cranberry” instead of “red”) would have, at their
disposal, the skills or tools to perform such a task. However, as we have discussed previously, I
am a unique animal; one who didn’t necessarily enjoy the absorption or
demonstration of said knowledge.
A life spent in the boonies with cars of questionable age and quality will very quickly familiarize you with the information on how to "jump off" a car, how to push a standard shift truck down a hill to get it going, how to convince someone that 'bondo' and 'primer' really are color options and that prayer can sometimes work as an alternative fuel.
Once he saw that I
wasn’t kidding about the jumper cables or the brie, he followed me outside and
I proceeded to take control of the situation, gathering the necessary tools and
assigning tasks. Like Vanilla Ice said, ‘give
me a problem; yo, I’ll solve it.” Yes, I am more than slightly embarrassed how
quickly that reference came tip-tap-typing out of my fingers. Let’s just pretend it didn’t happen, shall
we, and get back to the issue at hand. My reputation was at stake, people. Focus!
When I told him to
stop trying to push his truck out of the garage until I moved my car, he
groused, ‘This is ‘xactly why I wanted Greg. You're too bossy.”
I replied, “I’m
trying to fix this with the least amount of dirt and sweat. You’re decrepit and I’m over-dressed. Humor the preppy, okay?”
Once we had
situated the vehicles, excavated the jumper cables from the deep recesses of
his “king cab” (along with contraband Mt. Dew bottles and Wendy’s wrappers,
which earned him a condescending head shake from me and my mother in heaven,
I feel sure) we hooked up the cables, he cranked his truck and it awoke from
its slumber. I did a small victory dance…in my head.
As he prepared to
move his truck back into the garage, I suggested he go ahead and get gas
tonight so the battery would have time to
get a little workout and he wouldn’t have to fight traffic in the
morning. He is scheduled to blatantly lie
to several medical professionals tomorrow about his diet, glucose readings and
bowel movements. In layman’s terms he
has a doctor’s appointment but as I have attended with him in the past, I can
assure you my previous statement is accurate.
When he returned
from “gittin’ gas”, he walked past me to his bedroom. I followed him and said, “You’re welcome.”
He laughed and
said, “For what?”
“I fixed your
truck, old man. While wearing chocolate
suede wingtips.”
“Hmpf. You think you’re sumthin’ else, dontcha?”
“Yes, yes I do.”
“And why cain’t
you just say brown ‘stead of choc-lit?”
“Chocolate is more
descriptive; like saying raspberry instead
of pink or eggnog instead of winter white.”
“I know you think
you’re fancy, but it sounds to me like you’re just hungry.”
“Touche, pater, touché.”
No comments:
Post a Comment