On brake lights, lawn mowers and fixit know how
I took my temperature this week.
I didn’t think I was really running a fever. After all, the flu season is well behind us. But something is wrong and I’m worried. I’ve been doing things that are out of character.
I began showing symptoms last week. And I think I’ve even pinpointed when they started — the day an SUV started tailing me as I was driving home from the grocery store. I thought it odd that it kept such close tabs on me. I watched in the rear view mirror as that SUV took every turn I did. It even came to a stop at the bottom of my driveway and waited as I pulled into the garage and got out of my car.
I admit to being concerned that I was about to be grilled as a member of the “Fake News” cabal. Or even worse — that the SUV was possessed by something straight out of the CW’s “Supernatural” and was about to condemn my soul for all eternity to a purgatory I’m nowhere near prepared for.
I needn’t have worried, though. The driver turned out to be one of my son’s old neighborhood friends from their pre-teen days — hardly the sort of monster that requires help from Sam and Dean Winchester to put down. (I’ve got to stop watching “Supernatural.” Season 13 just showed up on Netflix.)
Anyway, my son’s old friend rolled down the passenger side window, leaned toward that side of the car with his left arm draped across the steering wheel and greeted me with a friendly “Hey, Mr. Snyder.”
As it turns out, he had followed me home because I had a brake light out and he thought I should know. That’s not the sort of thing a no-good demon does. I relaxed my guard and thanked him, impressed that he went out of his way to tell me.
Normally, I would have taken a mental note and had the wrenches who work on my car install a new bulb the next time it needed an oil change. But something came over me. I actually determined to take care of it myself.
The next day, I showed up at the auto parts store. And that afternoon, after uttering several choice words, I had a working brake light, again.
And I didn’t stop there.
Since then, I’ve replaced the air filter and the spark plug in my rickety old lawn mower. It runs much smoother now. Also, it’s quieter. That’s because I actually found the gumption somewhere deep within myself to replace its muffler. It no longer sounds like the Harley Davidson of lawn mowers. My neighbors should be pleased. It’s not quite as startling when I rev it up first thing in the morning.
I acknowledge being … pleased with myself. But there is one thing you have to understand. I am NOT a tool guy. And since I am not a tool guy, it stands to reason that I am NOT a fixit guy, either.
What I am is a TV guy. A remote control is as familiar to me as screwdrivers, hammers and drills are to other dudes. And I’m not shy about using one, especially when my rump is parked in my favorite chair.
They say even a broken clock is right twice a day. If that’s the case, then maybe my fixit successes are merely happy accidents.
But something seems off. That’s why I checked my temperature this week. And why I’m not ruling out that I’ve somehow been possessed by something that’s making me … uncharacteristically competent.
