Sick and (Re-)Tired

February 19, 2008

So, I’ve been sick.

Not deathly, gasping my last breath, ‘I’m coming to join you, Elizabeth!‘ sick, maybe. But still — sick. I’ve spent much of the past ten days coughing up bits of things that may or may not have been attached to my internal organs. And someone evidently replaced my sinus fluid with some sort of napalm-‘n’-molasses mixture, to see if I would notice.

Trust me, I noticed. Shove a bean up it and blow, Folgers.

“You might think that the universe would take pity on a guy like me in his hour of weakness, when all I wanted was twenty hours of sleep a night and some sort of honker Hoover to schlurp the phlegm right out of my face.”

Anyway, I’m better now. But it was a tough week and a half or so. You might think that the universe would take pity on a guy like me in his hour of weakness, when all I wanted was twenty hours of sleep a night and some sort of honker Hoover to schlurp the phlegm right out of my face.

Yep, you might think karma would cut me a break for once.

You might think that. But then you’d be an idiot.

Instead, I found myself last Friday morning — at the very height of my infirmary — standing in the driveway in the midst of a steady downpour, hacking and sniffling and contemplating the very, very flat left rear tire on my car. I was heavily medicated, had pressing work at the office and had already put on my ‘out in public pants’. Still, the sight of that soggy saggy deflated rubber doughnut led me to strongly consider giving the world the big fat finger and crawling back into bed.

But no. That’s just what karma would want, the little bitch. Instead, I got in the car and drove to a tire repair shop down the street. And things were all downhill from there.

I have this theory, you see. In the long and storied history of mankind, I contend that there has never — ever been such a thing as a ‘repairable tire’. I’ve personally flattened a few, busted a bunch, punctured a passel, and deflated a dozen or more. Not one of those holey wheels was deemed patchable. And neither was this one. The resident tire care triage expert broke the bad news — as usual:

Tire Guy: Sir? I’m sorry. We couldn’t save your tire.

Me: Ah. I see.

Tire Guy: We can sell you a new one, of course.

Me: Well, of course you can.

Tire Guy: Let’s see… looks like the only tire we have in your wheelbase is the Blingerator here.

Me: The Blingerator?

Tire Guy: Yeah, it’s great. Platinum-belted radials. Gem-encrusted treads. And the inner bladder is gold-plated.

Me: But… you can’t even see it.

Tire Guy: True. But you know it’s there.

Me: Peachy. I assume this thing is outlandishly expensive, then.

Tire Guy: Oh, you know it. Way more than those ‘peasant tires’ on your ride right now.

Me: Fine. Look, how about we just call in one of those ghetto tires, anyway? I like to match.

Tire Guy: Whatever you want, buddy. I’ll order one for you, and it’ll be here before you know it.

Me: Good. Because I’ve got an important meeting this afternoon.

Tire Guy: Oh, no problem. I’ll check the computer now. Just so long as it’s not back ordered.

Me: Okay.

Tire Guy: Uh-oh.

Me: Yes?

Tire Guy: It’s back-ordered. You won’t see it before August.

Me: Nice. Aren’t there any other models you can get?

Tire Guy: Oh, sure. I can think of three others that’d fit your car. Lemme see here.

Me: Great, thanks.

Tire Guy: Hmmm. Back-ordered.

Me: *sigh*

Tire Guy: Back-ordered.

Me: Of course.

Tire Guy: Hey, then there’s this one.

Me: Back-ordered?

Tire Guy: Nah. ‘Recalled due to spontaneous explosions’.

Me: Really? That’s it?

Tire Guy: Also? It’s back-ordered.

Me: Naturally. The Blingerator it is, then.

Tire Guy: Wonderful. I’ll just need the deed to your house, one of your kidneys and the rights to your first-born child. Nice doin’ business with you.

An hour later, I snuffled my way back the car, poorer in mood, wallet, and probably health. But I did have a fancy new tire, I did make it to work, and I did sit through that big, important, interminable, excruciatingly boring meeting.

Yip. Fricking. Pee.

The next time karma comes around, remind me to smack it around with a gold-plated bladder. Kick me while you’re down, will ya?