Hours, Money, Holidays, and Possibilities

For eight out of the last nine work-day's I've been coming in at 7AM to get some overtime and I discovered that I like coming in early. So, last week I submitted a request to my supervisor, SUSM, to see if I could change my schedule so I could come in at seven, take a half-hour lunch, and leave at 3:30PM rather than five.

She was gone last week, so I figured, while filling out the form, that she wouldn't approve it before this week and the stupid rules say that we who get our schedule modified can only start it on a Monday. Fine, I thought, I'll ask to start it on the 15th.

Monday, late morning-ish, I get an e-mail from her titled "FYI":

I just wanted to let you know that I have your Request for Alternate/Modified Work Schedule. I will need to talk to PJ & get back to you on this. He is out all week, but I think he may be coming in for a while on Wednesday – but not certain about that. I’ll let you know.

I wrote back with a simple okay, even though I don't understand why she can't just approve or deny it on her own. The other guys and gals who are clerks here don't want to regularly come in at 7AM if they're not getting overtime, so we'll be fully staffed until 5PM. And I asked for an earlier lunch, when no one else has one, which guarantees, on days that I'm here, that no one will ever have to leave for a late lunch again unless they WANT to. And that's a great thing, especially since I'm the one who usually has to leave late for lunch because some of the assholes I work with don't know how to make it there and back again (not a fucking Hobbit's tale) in an hour.

Without really understanding her reasons, I wrote back an okay because I figured if they decided in the positive, I'd get to start on the 15th.

Around 8:30 this morning she e-mailed me: "[ticknart] – did [the PJ] come see you about this yesterday?" meaning my request for modified work. I wrote back a simile "No." because he didn't.

Funny, I thought, isn't she the one who should be speaking with him? I think I made my position pretty clear by submitting the form that, you know, says I want to come to work earlier, take a shorter lunch, and leave earlier. Why should there be any discussion with me about it? Is it necessary for the two of them to know my motivations behind this change?

At nine she sent a reply: "He will be returning on Monday. The effective date on your request is Monday, so we will need to amend this if he approves it."

I printed and signed another request asking for the first day of this thing to be on the 22nd, since it has to start on a Monday. Not that it really matters this month because I'm going to be coming in at 7AM at least four days a week, and leaving at 6PM, so I can get a full 8 hours of overtime each week while it lasts.

Most of me doesn't think this'll get approved, though.

Sometime after I finished my first year here I submitted one of these so I would work four ten hour days each week and was denied because he didn't want to have an exhausted staff. A week after that denial I tried for a 9/8/80 schedule, but I'd stay here until 6PM (because my supervisor at the time -- I despised her -- came in at 7AM and I wanted less time with her around) and he said no to that one because the he'd have to stay until six with me, which made me feel real trusted. After that one was crushed, I quit for a while. I asked again about a year later with the schedule I'm asking for now and was denied because we had just lost two clerks and I should try again when more were hired.

So, here I am, trying again. Hoping to get an earlier shift, but preparing to once again be disappointed.

Why am I asking for this schedule?

Well, the main reason is because I'd have an hour in the morning where I could wear headphones and dick around on the 'netstuff. Sure, if I needed to get caught up, I'd use that time to do actual work, but I've been siting here writing this for the last 30 minutes and I spent much time (like more than an hour) launching hedgehogs into space. My best time is three days.

Also, though, the governator wants to cut my pay by another 5%, which would drop my pay by something like 14.6% from where it was last year at this time and that would make my buying a car in November an even stupider move and one harder to pay for than it was then. AND if the budget doesn't get passed by the end of the month the state may drop pay to all it's employees to federal minimum wage, or $6.55 an hour. (That's about $1100 a month before taxes, and since taxes take away 1/3rd of my pay not that would leave me with about $733, and my rent is, oh, $750 a month no matter how much I get in my paycheck. I know this sort of stuff is scare tactics, but it's like that old cliché: "Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.")

I figure that if I work until 3:30PM I'd be in a good position to get a second job, downtown here, in the evenings and on weekends. I could start at 4PM and work until 11PM, or whenever, to offset the probably loss in pay. Sure, I may not visit my family at Thanksgiving or Christmas so I can work, but at least I'd be getting by. (Besides I was already getting myself ready to miss Christmas because I may not be able to afford the new vehicle licensing fee increase. We'll see.) How well that'd work out, I don't know. Still, it'd be better than quitting, having no job, and moving in with my parents and hoping that I'd be able to find something up in Cowtown that's more than serving coffee or putting a prefabricated burger on a bun to people who just... well, I won't write anything overly nasty about them while I'm not working in that situation.

Now I sit an wait. I'm waiting for all of this bullshit to settle into place, but mostly I'm waiting to find out if my schedule will be changes so I can come in earlier, take a shorter lunch, and leave earlier each day I work here. And when the waiting for that is done, I'll wait for the next piece of shit to settle so I can make a move to prepare for the shit that'll come after that.

Cricket Christ, there sure is a lot of waiting for shit to happen in life, isn't there?

What's in a Name?

I don't name my cars. I've always called them "car" or "van" or by the model, when I drove a Pinto.

My new car named itself when its license plate came.

Its name is George Herbert Walker.

Yes, I am driving a Republican car.

My Christmastime "Adventure"

The Friday before Christmas, I woke up about thirty minutes early. I wanted time to get everything down to my car because that was the day I was headed to my parents' house for the weekend before Christmas. I got ready for work, packed up my car, and headed off to work, in my car, which I think I've only done three or four times in my 27 months working here.

See, the governator, in his infinite wisdom, had given us all some informal time off, four hours paid where we don't have to work, for the holiday. Since there's a problem with the headlights, I wanted to leave early and these extra hours were perfect. And leaving from work would get me moving twenty minutes earlier! Perfect.

I got to work and poked around. I didn't do much actual work because I didn't have any and SMSN wasn't here to be all enforcer-like, so I could play silly games and read crap. I shut down my computer five minutes before noon, pulled my sweatshirt on, and read until I could leave. When all the hands pointed up, I sped out of here. I paid for my parking, got in my car, pulled out the leftover pizza I brought for lunch and headed out of town.

Traffic wasn't bad through town. On the highway, people were going slower than they needed to, but they were close to the speed limit and I had myPod playing songs I like and know, so I could sing along. I drove and drove and got to the really narrow part of the highway and traffic became a cross between crawling and stopping. I think I spent forty minutes crawling and stopping before I saw the messy accident that caused it. (Didn't see any people, just smashed cars and glass and the CHP guys.) Even after that the traffic wasn't smooth because farther down some CHP guys had set up a detour for the people who wanted to drive to the west. I was about an hour behind my normal schedule by this time.

After that, it was smoothing sailing for about 3000 feet when the freeway started and things got pokey. Traffic didn't stop, but it was really slow and pretty tight. I kept my car to the nearly all the way right lane because my exit was only about two miles away.

Traffic though that town was pretty good. We moved at nearly the speed limit and I knew that once I got out of town speed would pick up; after all, it was only two in the afternoon.

I was right. After I got through town I hit the gas and finally, after two hours of driving, got my car to 55 MPH. That's when the car started shaking, well bouncing, really fast and I heard a "whump whump whump" sound that went along with the bounces. Stuff in the passenger seat started rattling. I took my foot off the gas and as the car slowed, the bouncing stopped and the sound stopped. I figured I would just cruise at fifty and take the rest of the trip slow and be a bit more late to my parents' house and while I was there I could talk to my dad about the problem and we could work out whether I needed to take it to someone to get it fixed.

I cruised along for a few miles when the car started steering funny and was trying to pull me into the other lane. My snow driving experience kicked in and my foot came off the gas and I tried to hold the car steady so I wouldn't go into the other lane or steer too hard off the road. It took me a few seconds before I realized that I had blown a tire.

I pulled off the road as far as I could because there's not too much of a shoulder on that highway and I wanted to feel fairly safe while changing the driver’s side front tire.

Out I climbed into the biting wind and walked to the back of the car to free the jack and the doughnut. With those in hand, I walked back to the front of the car. I set the doughnut down and looked for the right place to set up the jack. The gravel on the side of the road hurt my knees as I twisted the handle to get the car up enough so I could get the tire off. The tread on the tire had peeled away leaving it bald and thin. When I got the tire off, I found the tread wrapped around the axel. I sighed and carried the tire and the tread and tossed them into the car; I didn't want to be one of those assholes who leave their messes on the side of the road. I got the doughnut up and on and cranked the car back down to the ground.

The jack safely stowed in the back of the car, I climbed back into my seat and started the car up. It had only taken me about 40 minutes to do everything. Not bad for a guy who hates working on cars. I put it in gear, waited for a break in the traffic, and hit the gas. The rear tires spun, but the car didn't move. I tried again. Nothing. I tried going in reverse. Lots of noise, but no moving. I tried going forward one more time and when nothing happened I set the parking break, turned off the car, and sighed.

About a mile behind me was a railroad museum. I head toward it hoping to find a phone, crossing the street when the shoulder on my side got way too small. I kept thinking that at least it wasn't raining, and then I'd check the sky to make sure there weren't any clouds above me that could open up and pour. The sky stayed clear, thank you.

The sign at the museum said that it was only opened on Saturday and Sunday. Fortunately, the gate was open and there was a car parked in front of the building. I walked over and knocked on the door. A guy came and I told him what was going on. He let me come in. At first he wanted me to dial 911, but I only needed a tow truck to yank me out. He offered me his cell phone and dug out a phone book for me to use. I called for a tow, then went to the road to wait.

The clock in the truck showed four as I climbed into the cab and buckled in. I explained to the driver what the problem was and off we went. He sang along with the twangy country music that was on the radio and a minute or two later I pointed out my car. He slowed down, looked at the ground and decided that he couldn't get my car out, safely, unless CHP was there to slow or stop traffic. At the nearest turn around point, he radioed in and told them what he needed. We got back on the road and headed for the museum because that was the only place he could turn around to get going in the direction my car was pointed. At that turn around, he radioed in again to ask about when the CHP would come. The guy on the radio said no one was coming, that they couldn't help me, and there was no charge to me. It was 4:15.

I climbed out of the cab, thanking the guy for coming out and giving me fifteen minutes of warmth, and headed back toward my car and the nearest emergency phone.

At the phone, I picked it up and pushed the button to call directly to CHP. I didn't want to do this on my way down because I knew I needed a tow truck and I didn't want to bother anyone that I didn't have to. Now I had to bother them. Some woman picked up and I explained that I needed a tow and where I was and that I did understand that I'd have to pay for the tow and I gave her my information and I told her that I was going to wait at my car.

The walk back was colder. The sun was lower and there was more wind. At one point, a truck pulled off the road in front of me. I wondered if the driver was going to offer me a ride. Out of the window came an empty plastic bottle, then a McDonald's bag, then more bottles, an ash tray, and another bottle. When I got up to the window, I was offered a ride. I turned him down. Not only was my car just over the little hill, but I really didn't want to ride with someone who used the highway as his trash can. Sometimes, beggars can be choosers, they just have to know when it's okay to make that choice.

The rest of the walk was as uneventful as walking along a busy highway could be.

I climbed into my car, which was chilly, but not windy, and waited.

I was very good about not turning the key every few minutes to check the time. I only checked every fifteen minutes.

At 6:15, with no tow truck or CHP in sight, I grabbed the flashlight out of the glove compartment and set out to the other, closer, emergency phone. I figured that two hours was enough time to wait for help and not get it. In the dark, the wind had died, so it felt warmer at six than it had at four.

I got to the phone, which was on the other side of the highway, and got through to a guy. I immediately told him that I had called, from a different phone, two hours earlier. He sounded concerned that no one had come for me and took all the same information that the woman had earlier. Before we hung up, I asked him to connect me with my parents so I could tell them I was okay and that I wouldn't be there when I originally thought I would and that I'd stay overnight wherever I ended up. We hung up and I headed back to my car.

I wasn't sure where the CHP would be coming from, though. Would the cruiser stop at the phone looking for me, or at my car? It probably depended on which direction it came from. So, I parked myself on a little hill, way off the shoulder, where I could watch my car and the phone. I stood there singing.

I don't know how long I waited.

Eventually there were lights behind my car. CHP had arrived. I hurried, but didn't run, over to the cruiser. The guy rolled down the passenger window and a rush of warmth hit my face. I explained to him my problem. He got out and looked at my car. He told me to get in and he'd look to see if he could pull me out. After a couple of minutes, he walked up to my window, which I had already rolled down, and told me that I needed a tow truck. In my brain I said, "No shit you fuck-head. That's why I've been trying to get one for the past three hours." In the real world I said, "Okay." He said he'd call one from his car and told me to stay where I was and asked me if I knew that I'd be paying for the tow. I said I knew.

More waiting.

When the tow truck got there, the CHP headed off so he could turn around and slow traffic for the yanking. Once again, I explained the problem. The truck driver quoted me a price and asked if it was okay, and I said yes, I just wanted my car out so I could get moving.

He hooked his cable up to my car and had me start the car so I could steer as he pulled. Steering felt weird, like it wasn't doing any good. When the driver stopped, he came to my window and told me to let off the breaks, I said they were off and the car was in neutral. He gave the car another yank then stopped again, came to the window and said my tire was locked and I'd need to be towed. I got out and saw the trench my front tire had dug.

I gritted my teeth so I wouldn't start cursing and said it was okay. I climbed into the cab of his truck and fumed while he hoisted my car up onto its back tires.

Lucky for me, the driver also has a repair shop and he told me, as he pulled into a motel, that he'd call the next morning and let me know what was going on. I said okay and snagged my bag from my car.

I got my room and dropped off my stuff. It was after eight.

Across the street was McDonald's, so that's where I bought my dinner, which I took back to my room with me. Before eating, I called my parents to let them know what was going on and to ask them to come and get me the next day if the car couldn't be fixed that day. They said okay, so I ate and showered and watched the singing numbers in White Christmas and eventually fell asleep.

The next morning I woke up when a woman pounded on my door. She wanted to make sure I didn't need anything, she said, but really, she was the cleaning lady and wanted to do all the upstairs rooms first. I called the repair shop and spoke with the guy. He hadn't looked at the car yet. A bit later, he called me back and told me that my brake line had broken and was leaking fluid. He said that all the places he knew of to get me the part were closed and wouldn't open until after Christmas.

I called my parents and told them. My brother, and his girlfriend, had offered to come and get me. He'd leave at ten, I was told. I knew it took about two hours to do the travel, but really screwed up my math and assumed he'd get there at 1 PM, which was good because after I checked out and went to McDonald's to sit and wait, I wasn't worried when they wasn't there at 12:45. They got there a little after one.

We headed over to the repair shop. No one was there. I called the guy and he said he'd send his son, so I could get my house key and an estimate. I pulled out my spare car key and my brother and his girlfriend and I unloaded my crap into their rental car. Eventually the guy's son got there (All I could think when I saw him was that this is how a douche must look in human form.) and I got my keys and the estimate.

And we were off.

We got to my parents' house around 4:00 PM. I was only 24 hours late getting there.

Lights?

So, I have decided that, unless it's an emergency, I'll no longer be driving my car after the sun sets.

The last three times I've driven my car at night--once in July, once in August, and then Monday night--the headlights flick off. The switch was on, still, but the lights were off. If I pulled and held the thing that switches between dim and bright, I could keep the brights on, but as soon as I let go of the switch, darkness.

That means, no They Might Be Giants later this month. (There are three locations within not insane driving distance. I'm glad I didn't buy tickets.) And no Avett Brothers.

Oh, well. At least, unlike in my last car, I'm not scared of driving during the day.

Car

Tomorrow (or today, for those of you reading this on Tuesday after midnight PST), I will be going to the DMV to register a different car in my name. My car (adventures found here) has hopefully been towed away to be auctioned off at a later date for a price I will be able to take off of my taxes next year.

Have I mentioned anything about changing cars here? I can't remember. I don't think I have.

What happened was that my parents offered to give me one of the cars that they have but rarely (*cough* never *cough*) drive, the Ford Aerostar. Pretty much the car I learned to drive in, which means I'll probably never think of it as mine, but that's okay. It's a stick. It gets okay mileage. It whines a bit in any gear but fourth. I've only driven it twice since I got it, but it doesn't make me think it's going to catch on fire on a trip for groceries.

Looking toward the long run, or at least as long as I ever do, I'm hoping that I'll only keep this car for a yearish and by then I'll have a different job that pays a little more and I'll be living in a different town and I'll have saved enough money to actually buy something nice-ish.

Why I Am Now Much More Afraid of My Car

Monday, New Year's Day, for those who care, I woke up, eightish again, with three things on my mind: 1) haircut 2) brownies and 3) pee. They weren't necessarily in that order. I think I thought of the brownies first, actually.

I rid myself of the thought of pee in the usual way, with a sigh of relief.

After washing my hands, I went to the tray of brownies to rid myself of that thought as well, but it branched off into another though: What if I scooped some ice cream on top of the brownies and ate the two things together? Somewhere deep in the dark pit that is occasionally my mind something screamed that it wasn't a good idea to eat the combined power of pure vanilla ice cream and moist brownies for breakfast. All of my taste buds and my stomach cheering for the sweets drown out that small voice, but I think there may have been the echo of a gunshot in there somewhere.

Brownies were quickly placed into a bowl and ice cream was carefully placed on top. (It was Breyers ice cream, for those who may be jealous. It was on sale last week.) I sat in front of the TV, turned on another episode of TNG and began to eat. At first I started out trying to eat the brownies and the ice cream in a way that brought them together, but still kept them separate, I didn't want my brownies to get soggy. Eventually, I got tired of that game (and my hand holding the bowl got cold) and I chopped and I mixed the two things together. It was wonderful. The only thing that could have made it better would have been some chocolate syrup, but I didn't have any of that.

Eventually, the bowl was empty and the episode had run its course and the only thought left in my brain was haircut.

As I showered, I considered the possible places I could have my tresses chopped. SuperCuts is obvious and easy and close by, but I don't like the place. They always try to sell me "product" (whatever that means) for my hair. I just want my damn hair cut. And no, I do not want to spend twenty dollars on a five ounce container of hair gel. Did I come in with gel in my hair? Do I look like to sort of guy who gives a damn about how his hair is "styled"? You don't need to try to make me feel bad because I don't have "in" hair. Does it make you feel better to make me feel worse so I'll buy some gel from this store? You don't even get a commission, do you? What do you want from me? You already have my DNA being swept up and processed so you can crack my personal genome so you can better market things to me. Why can't you leave me alone? I gave you my fifteen dollars and a tip for an only so-so haircut because you only know how to do the cuts from the posters and ripped magazine pages that are on the walls, but not a simple cut-it-pretty-short-but-leave-enough-on-top-for-me-to-play-with cut. Just stop it. Please, just take my money and leave me alone.

I thought a real barber would be a good idea, this time. There isn’t any downtown that I know of. Lots of places with "stylists," but no plain, simple barbers. Where to go, though? There are a couple over that way, but that's a lot of driving, and one by a laundromat, which is much closer. I choose the closer one, got dressed, and headed out the door.

I turned left instead of the usual right and decided instead of turning around I'd use the highways. It's about the same distance and I got to drive faster. After a few minutes of driving I pulled into the parking lot near the barbershop and pulled up in front of it. There was a clock that said they'd be back at 9:30. The clock in my car said 9:35. Then I saw a sign on the window. I parked my car and went to investigate. The barber wouldn't be back until Wednesday, as in today. I turned around to my car and saw smoke rising from under the hood.

I've known about the oil leak in my car since I bought it from my uncle and aunt. It's always been there just slowly dripping. It's the reason I check the oil in my car every time I drive more that 100 miles in a day, even if I just changed the oil the day before. I don't remember, though, the engine ever smoking. Even when I burned one up entirely (not because of the lack of oil, but because a water hose melted). I don't ever remember smelling burning oil before the last time my car died. After I got it back from the place and drove it from Cowtown to here, I noticed a burning oil smell when I'd come to a stop and I'd especially notice it when I'd stop and the heater was on. The more I drove it, the worse the smell got.

The Sunday before Christmas, after I met with a friend for coffee (she says Hi to those who she knows and she'd probably say Hi to those she doesn't since she's that kind of a person), I drove the windy road back to my parents. When I got there, I noticed smoke coming out from under the hood of my car and that the stink of burning oil was stronger. I popped the hood and looked. I grabbed my dad so he could look. We took of the spare tire (you'll remember where the damned spare tire is located from this post) and looked some more. All I saw was a dirty, dirty engine. We poked around a little. He got greasier than I did, but I figure why grab things in there if I don't know what they're for. We filled fluids. (It looked like the oil was empty so three (I think) quarts went in, but when we backed the car up to a more level position (the car was leaning forward, toward the dip-stick (not me this time)) it was over flowing, go figure.) We tightened hoses. My dad couldn't think of anything else to do.

After letting the car sit for a while, I took my mom up the hill so she could get bacon for broccoli salad for Christmas. (Mom, I forgot to tell you at Christmas and since I'm thinking of it now I'll put it here: some feta in the broccoli salad would be really good.) I could smell the burning oil. My mom could smell the burning oil. When we got back to their house, the engine was smoking, again. Dad's only suggestion was to clean the engine at the self-serve car wash place on Tuesday so we could get a better look at what's going on in there on a clean engine. So we did.

All it looked like, to me, was a wet, clean engine.

I drove my car back from Cowtown that Tuesday night. The whole time I was wondering how quickly I could get out of my car and grab the fire extinguisher if I needed to. I made it back safely and the car only smelled a little like burning oil. It probably didn't help that I had the window cracked almost the entire time, though.

That Wednesday, before I went to work, I popped the hood to take a look. All I saw was a dirty, dirty engine.

On Monday, I popped the hood and the car was smoking like it had that first time I noticed it happening before Christmas. The engine looked just as black. I have no idea where the leak is coming from. The whole time I drove my stinky car back to my apartment, by SuperCuts, which was closed for the day, I thought it was going to go up in flames for sure.

Will I be driving to the laundromat this weekend so I have clean underwear next week? Yeah, but I won't like it.

Car Report

On Sunday, my dad and I drove to my grandparents' house, pushed the car into the shade, and struggled with getting the belts around the damn fan and onto the pulleys. One belt is just a little too short (like a quarter of an inch, but the belt that's one size larger is too big, the slack just isn't taken up) to get on, so it had to be forced, the other went on fine. Then we added water, and added water, and added water. I figured this was because the car had gotten so hot all those weeks ago. All this car stuff took about an hour, much better than the last time we replaced the belts.

We puttered around the house making sure the cats had food and the garden was water because my grandparents are in Washington visiting my uncle and his daughters and then headed back to my parents' house.

I noticed that my car was driving a bit hotter than it usually does and figured that it just didn't get quite enough water.

I parked my car and decided to let it cool off so I could check it later.

Later, I popped the hood, took the cap off the radiator and looked down the deep dark hole. Nothing to be seen. I took the hose off the porch and added water, and added water, and added water.

I got in the car and drove it for a while. Down to a shopping center then up a back road. Past the house Heels and Johnny Logic live in to see if I could remember the way, and back to my parent's house. At first, my car was running nice and cool. Soon, the needle pointed about halfway. A bit later, it was back at the 2/3rds mark, trying to sneak above. I drove it to my parent's house, parked, popped the hood, and heard a hissing.

Shit.

I got my dad and he listened.

It was decided that something was leaking. We pulled the spare tire out (yes, it's on top of the engine), broke out some flashlights and looked around. We poked and prodded at hose. We tried to peer around immovable parts. We could see a little water in one part, but it didn't look like it was pooling. The engine was turned on and off several times.

Eventually, I got sick of looking and turned around. When the hissing stopped, my dad got on his back and squeezed under the car. He called me over. There was a drop dripping.

"I think it's the water pump," he said.

I started cursing.

The car is still in Cowtown. I borrowed a different car to return to North Bay.

We'll see what the future brings.

F---ing Cars

I left my parent's house a little after noon, last Sunday the 13th, for those who maybe confused),thinking that it’d be a good way to beat the crazy traffic heading out of Cowtown. And it was. There were people on the road, but it wasn’t insane, and I figured that I’d beat the most horrible traffic. I was probably right, too.

I was singing along to the music (I don't remember what it was) when I saw a CHP car behind me with its lights spinning and its headlights doing that bizarre alternating flash thing. There wasn't a siren, but I figured that I'd better follow the law and pull off to the right. The CHP car passed about ten more cars when it turned to block the lane at an intersection. The officer got out of his car and started to drop orange cones in the road. I knew what that meant: a grass fire along the highway. Some jackass probably threw a cigarette out the window into the dry grass.

That sort of thing has happened to me before, so I cut my engine. The last time it happened it delayed me over an hour and I was stuck behind a full garbage truck in 100+ degree weather. Misery. That sort of a time delay was not to be, however, and I knew it from the get go because we were right at an intersection and with a left then one right and then one more left, I'd be back on the correct highway. Of course, it took fifteen minutes before the CHP officer let us make that first left. Ah, well, it was time basking in the rising temperature of my car as the sun caressed me through the windshield. I finally started when I saw the officer stand and, as usual, my car started with a groan and a growl.

The left, the right, and the other left later, and I was back on the highway cruising toward, in a roundabout way, The Northbay.

At the point where they highway goes from two lanes to four and then the opposite directions split apart all together, I noticed that my battery was at a lower number than it usually is when I’m driving. Then I heard this strange sound; I even rolled up the windows to hear it better. Then I looked at the gauges again and noticed that the temperature had climbed to near the red. (Whenever the temperature gets that high, I get a little freaked out, since I have killed an engine through overheating. The guy who drove the car before me put the damn hose on backward, so the reinforced end was in air and the regular end was up against the hot, hot, so very hot engine.) I immediately pulled over and hoped that, even though I added some before I left, the water was low. As I was moving on to the shoulder, I turned on the hazard lights. This was just over the top of the first real hill after the highway split, miles from any pay phone.

I popped the hood and stepped out of my car, after checking to make sure there was no traffic whizzing by that could rip the door off my car. Immediately, I heard the hissing of steam trying to blow the cap off the radiator. I started to curse at my car. Then I realized that, even though I doubt it, if my car could hear me, it probably wouldn't like the cursing, so I turned my back to my car and started cursing at the landscape. I raised the hood and looked at the water reservoir, empty. I looked at the engine and noticed that one of the belts was loose. I looked closer. Sure enough, one belt was loose, and so was the other. The other, in fact was shredded. I was going no where.

See, my dad and I replaced the belts in my car once before. It's not easy. A six year old would have trouble getting his arm to fit in there and a crowbar is needed to apply tension to the belts. We decided that the easiest way, but not the cheapest way, to put belts on my car would be to pull the entire engine out, slip new belts on, tighten it, and put the engine back. I think it took us about five hours to get the belts on last time. There was no way I was going to be able to do that on the side of the road. Plus, I don't have any tools in my car to do it with.

For the next twenty minutes, I tried to wave down a car, or truck, or whatever so I could use a phone and call a tow truck. No luck. So I decided to walk back the way I came because, even though it was far away, I knew there was a pay phone in that direction. I put some water in my bag and started walking. I passed two ranches on my walk, both had locked gates. A CHP car drove by, but didn't stop. After an hour of walking, I came across a stranded mobile home (Which ironically had shredded a belt, too. But for them, to replace a belt, all they needed was a new belt, a ratchet, and a person willing to do the work. They were waiting for one of the people's mother to bring a new belt.) and borrowed a phone.

I called a tow truck.

Twenty minutes later, it picked me up at the mobile home. Five minutes later, my car was loaded up. Thirty minutes later, my car was being dropped off at my grandparent's house (about 10 miles away from my parent's house) and I was using my credit card to pay $155 for the tow. Fifteen minutes later, my uncle was driving me back to my parent's, who were in Baja California, house. After I arrived, I started looking for keys to their cars so I could "borrow" one of them so I could get back to The Northbay. I did.

Nine and a half hours after my first one, I was in the shower washing the dust and sweat from my walk off of me.

GAS!

I filled my car up today. $30 to fill the tank. This tank is only 13 gallons, when empty. It's funny to think that I was pissed when prices climbed over $1.50 a gallon.

I'm angry and hungry.

I need to cook.