do not ask (1/18/6)
I truly believe that there are a couple of angels
sitting (floating? hovering? winging it?) near a designated cloud above us who
do nothing all day and night but play their harps, patiently waiting for one of
us down below, experiencing some unexpected hardship, to mistakenly ask aloud,
"what could be worse?", at which time they, without missing a single note of
their heavenly tune, immediately remind us why we should never, ever ask that
question aloud again. And yet, knowing what will happen, we still invariably ask
and, as always, they will answer, time and time again.
Now I like to think of myself as a man with at the least an average intelligence
(my IQ actually suggests that I am very nearly bright!), able to learn from past
experiences and mistakes and smart enough not to repeat them. One would think
that, after having seen the results of, say, asking said question aloud, that
one would learn not to ask that particular question again.
One would think that and one would be wrong.
The last time I saw my sweetheart was over the New Years weekend and, even
though our time together was glorious, it went by much too quickly (as it always
does when we're together) and before we knew it, it was over. My only comfort
during that empty and dark void which always seems to engulf me whenever she's
not around was knowing that she would be coming down to see me again, two long
weeks later. But as fates would have it, a week before her scheduled visit, she
came down with something and instead of feeling better, every day she kept
feeling worse and worse, holding off until the last possible moment (the day
itself) to tell me the inevitable...she was far too sick to travel. I hated not
being able to be up there with her when she was feeling so bad, to stroke her
hair, to bring her a comic book, to feed her some soup ... but even more, I
hated knowing that, as a result of this evil illness, it would have to be
another two weeks at least before we could finally be together. I hung up the
phone, grabbed my chest, and for the moment too miserable to be even the
slightest bit concerned by any immediate consequence, shouted to the heavens
(represented at that moment by my apartment ceiling),
"My God! What could be worse?!"
Two days later, sitting in my dead car at the entrance of the cemetery, staring
at the graves of the only people in Los Angeles who can get by without having a
functioning vehicle, while waiting for the tow truck to arrive and transport it
(and me) back over the hill, past that spot on the freeway where my transmission
decided to suddenly (and without warning) go off and join that not so lively
group I was blankly staring at, to my regular mechanic's garage (far enough away
to cost over $100 even with my AAA membership...even though I realize I am
proving my Jewishness by mentioning that part, so sue me) which, being a Sunday
and all, was closed.
I called the garage early Monday morning. When a mechanic talks to you about
transmission problems, they invariably use a unique, more somber tone than they
would when talking about, oh I don't know, anything else. It's that frightening,
I-already-know-what-you're
-going-to-say - don't-say-it tone of voice, shared only by Military Chaplin's
some poor soldier's abandoned tags...
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Anderson. He was a good man and a brave soldier but there was
nothing anyone could do...he had transmission problems."
...or sad looking doctors, shaking their heads while waving x-rays displaying
disturbing dark patches in and around important body parts.
"Well, at least it's not your crank shaft."
Even those of us who know little about cars know full well that transmission
problems are going to be bad, really bad, if for no other reason than because of
the fact that at any other time, a mechanic, in an attempt to put things into
automotive perspective, as well as try and ease the pain produced by their
seemingly outrageous bill, would almost certainly at some point muse, "well, at
least it's not your transmission." But this time it was, and as he was
explaining things to me, I could almost picture those two little angels,
floating (or whatever they do) above me, playing their little harps and trying
not to laugh.
I called the family to share with them my drama (it's what we do) and at first I
wondered how they could possibly have already heard about it because they all
sounded pretty shaken up on the phone already...but now I'm guessing that,
somewhere between "trans" and "mission", that horrible question must have found
its way once again out of that cerebral file in my head marked "do not ask", out
my mouth and up to within earshot of that small and everready musical pair...for
I was told that the family couldn't talk to me because they were about to take
my teenage niece (who's hysterics I could now hear in the background) to the
hospital in order to have her tonsils removed.
I hung up the phone and went out to check the mail, hoping beyond hope that a
long over-due residual check from Jack-In-The-Box would be awaiting me there. It
wasn't. As I looked down at the red-bordered phone bill in my hand, I could
almost make out some faint voices coming from far above me...
(strum, strum) "Did he say it yet?"
(strum, strum) "Not yet."
(strum, strum) "I'm sure he will, any moment now."
...sorry fellas...not this time...