In the Dark

There are times when I feel incredibly confident, incredibly capable, as if there were nothing I couldn’t accomplish. Up until this very moment, today was one of those days. I had a stellar day at work. I led a meeting with a particularly difficult client, which ended spectacularly. It was if I was reading a script, and I was the star. I confronted the giant bureaucracy known as AT&T Wireless Services and had charges reversed on my monthly cell phone bill, all the while pleasantly bantering with the customer service representative Arlene. After work my volleyball team won four out of five dreadfully close games to clench the season championship. I bumped, I set, I spiked. We emerged victorious. On the commute home, I raced down the BART stairs just in time to catch the San Francisco train, no waiting required. Once home, I grilled, to perfection, that universal delight known as grilled cheese.

Then.

Then. The lightbulb situation. Seems like that’s always the one to get me, no matter where I’m living.

It was in my bathroom. Again. As I switched on the light last night, I was blinded by that sudden spark, that sudden explosion of a bulb setting forth its last glimmer of light. On the way home tonight I picked up a box of light bulbs, sure that the process of restoring light to my bathroom would take me mere minutes.

I am now feeling the exact opposite of confident, capable, and accomplished. For half an hour, I have been standing on a stepstool, in my highest heels, trying to dislodge the antiquated globe from the bathroom light fixture. Even as a tall woman, made taller by 3 ½ inch heels to compensate for the true stepstool I am standing on, I am not quite tall enough to reach my raised ceiling. Not quite tall enough to somehow remove the heavy, thick glass protecting my burned out bulbs. I grow dizzy from holding my head back at a 90 degree angle, trying to figure out how the globe is secured, in order to figure out how to unsecure it without shattering it. I glance at the screwdriver in my hand, which I’ve used to try to gently pry it loose. I look again at the light. Suddenly using the screwdriver just doesn’t seem like the bright idea I thought it was only moments ago. I’ve twisted. I’ve turned. I’ve pulled. I’ve pushed. I’ve pried.

And still I’m in darkness.

On the Road

“Did you happen to notice any vibrating right before the blowout?” the rotund AAA mechanic queried.

Emily and I glanced at each other suspiciously. “Well, maybe a little,” she cautiously offered.

Once in the car, we burst out laughing. “That’s got to be the line of the day,” and we erupted into yet another fit of laughter.

Emily bought her car used right after I moved to Korea. So, she’s had it for about a year and a half. And I’d venture to guess she hasn’t done much in the way of maintenance on it. Every time I ride in her car, the trip is marked by 3 characteristics: an almost unbearable road noise, a shaking that turns any voice into a falsetto, and a hurky jerky motion that makes even the strongest stomach nauseous.

We were on one of our famous “early morning” trips to Lake Tahoe to snowboard. Surprisingly, we really did leave early in the morning. As we watched the sun rise as we crossed the Bay Bridge, we talked of our week – the wins, the frustrations, the mundane. As we approached Berkeley, I offered, Hey, do you want me to read aloud from Ethan Frome? I had the indescript, hard cover book on my lap, just checked out from the library, the latest selection in our mostly social, but somewhat literary, book club.

Excited by the idea, she encouraged me. Halfway through the introductory chapter, we heard a loud noise. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. We gave each other questioning looks. Did we just hit something? I wondered. “Maybe,” she responded, but we kept on driving. A couple of pages later I noticed the shaking of the car, and the noise level, had greatly increased. In my peripheral vision, I peered at Emily. She seemed engrossed by my reading, not concerned about the crescendo. Trusting her as the driver, I merely began reading louder to compensate for the additional noise.

Towards the end of the introductory chapter, she turned to me. “Do you think the shaking has gotten any worse since we left the Bay Area?” Before I could answer, she offered, “No, it’s always been loud. I’m sure it’s fine. I mean, I just had it checked a couple of weeks ago. The mechanic said I needed to get an alignment, because my tires are wearing unevenly, but that there was no hurry, that these should last at least through the summer.” Always one to err on the side of caution when it comes to cars, but also not wanting to offer advice where it wasn’t really solicited, I ventured, Yeah, but as much as you drive you may want to get new tires sooner rather than later. The only problem with driving on warped tires is you increase the chances of having a blowout, which could be really dangerous. “Yeah….” she agreed.

I read the last couple of pages of the introductory chapter of Ethan Frome. By now the noise was unbearable. I closed the book and our eyes met. “I should pull over to check it out, shouldn’t I?” Probably so. It couldn’t hurt.

We slowed to a halt on the shoulder of busy I-80. I was the first to reach the back of the car. Oh, my god! The tire met the ground, no air in between the two. Emily giggled. “Guess it’s a good thing we stopped. Do you think we could drive to the next exit to change the tire?” Hmmmm. Probably. As we began driving on the utterly deflated, completely flat tire, we realized that we really shouldn’t be driving anywhere.

“Wow. Guess it’s a good thing that chapter ended when it did, otherwise we would have never pulled over,” Emily began. We laughed hysterically, not bothered at all by this unexpected glitch in our plans.

Emily dialed AAA on her cell phone, and I continued to read, this time silently. After several minutes, Emily on hold, I reading with bated anticipation, I sensed we were not alone. I glanced out Emily’s window and spied a figure. I gasped, causing Emily to look. A California Highway Patrolman stood outside her window.

“Ladies, can I help you?” Emily explained the situation. He nodded, offering to call for help, at which point Emily explained she was still on hold with AAA. He asked if there was anything else he could do to help us, Emily immediately shook her head, at which point I leaned across the driver’s seat, squinted my eyes against the morning sun, and queried, Hey, could you show us how to change the tire? He chuckled lightly, shook his head, and was on his way. Emily turned to me. “His job is to serve and protect, not serve, protect, and change tires.” Another fit of giggles followed.

AAA was on their way.

“Do you know how to change a tire?” she asked me. “I don’t, but it’s one of those things I want to learn.”

I began, Well, I have changed one before. Maybe it’s like riding a bike. I could probably do it again. That way we wouldn’t have to wait the half hour for AAA to get here.

We went to the hatchback and began pulling our boarding equipment out. Helmets, boards, boots, bags. We unscrewed the spare tire from its resting place. Emily set it on the ground. She began searching again. “Hmmm. There doesn’t seem to be a jack here.” Oh. That presents somewhat of a problem. I can’t really change the tire without a jack. We stared at the equipment on the ground and began laughing again.

Back to the car we went. As soon as the doors were closed, the giggles commenced, this time for no apparent reason. Emily turned to me, eyes twinkling, gasping for breath, and said, “The funniest thing was, you didn’t even skip a beat in the chapter you were reading, you just read louder.” I know, I was trying to drown out the obnoxious noise from the car, I retorted. You know, in the future, you might want to keep a can of this stuff called “FixAFlat”… “Oh, my gosh! I have a can!” Really? Let’s try it! Once again, we hopped out of the car. She found her emergency car bag and we rifled out the can of FixAFlat. She read the directions, putting a cap on, inserting a valve, twisting this way and that. “Hmmm.” What’s wrong? I asked. “There seems to be something missing. Take a look.” The part to connect the can to the valve was missing, replaced by a giant hole. Oh. That’s not going to help us fix the flat either. Back to the car.

We passed the time by telling jokes we had heard over the past week. There came another knock on the window, this time on my side. Hi, there, how are you? I offered to the motorcycle cop who had peered into our car. “Hi, ladies. What’s going on here?” Emily took over from there. “Well, you see, we have a flat tire, but we’ve called AAA and supposedly they’re on their way.” “Okay, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I’ll be going now.”

In a way, it was reassuring that 2 highway patrolmen had stopped within 20 minutes. In a way, it made me realize how lucky we had been not to receive a ticket as we sped along, racing towards the snow.

AAA finally arrived. In less than 5 minutes, the burly man had the disabled tire off and the spare tire on. I questioned him, So, like, did we hit a nail or something? Is that why we got a flat?

He turned the tire over. “Oh, no, ma’am. See, you have a blowout here.” We stared at a gaping hole in the tire, at least 8 inches wide, steel wires curling this way and that from where they were ripped from their proper place, securely holding the belts of the tire in place. “Did you happen to notice any vibrating right before the blowout?” the rotund AAA mechanic queried.

All in all, it was a pleasant distraction. Emily got 4 new tires. The mechanic, Judd (we knew because it was embroidered on his shirt), recommended we eat breakfast at the IHOP while he changed her tires. We haven’t shared breakfast together in a long time. It was wonderful to slow our pace and discover the details of our lives, not just the high level overview we so often share with each other in the interest of time.

As we left the restaurant, she mused, “I wonder if new tires will really make a difference? I mean, my car will still be out of alignment. I bet there will still be shaking. Just not as much.” I nodded in agreement. Mmm hmmmm. Bet you’re right.

She paid. We entered the car for the moment of truth. After pulling from the parking lot to the highway, we both exclaimed at the same time, “Unbelievable!” No noise. At all. No jerky motions. And best of all, no shaking. Without realizing what I was saying, I blurted out, You really are a good driver! She gave me a questioning look, one that only lasted a moment, before we both burst out in uncontrollable laughter once again.

Tax Day

I filed weeks ago, determined not to engage in the last minute rush to a still open post office tonight. Surprisingly, after years of writing checks to the government, I was due a refund. Oh, joy! Even though the money was rightfully mine, I felt as though I was getting a bonus. An unexpected perk.

Every day since filing I’ve checked my mailbox, anticipating those two envelopes, one from the state, one from the federal government. Every day I’m disappointed. When will they arrive?

While balancing my checkbook, I noticed two stray deposits. What is this? Ahhhhh. My tax refund, stealthily deposited directly into my account. With no announcement, no fanfare, no acknowledgement from me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for the refund. But it’s just not as sweet. Not as satisfying as receiving that stiff piece of paper, scribbling a signature on the back, and proudly presenting it to a teller.

God Bless BART

She entered the BART train and several eyes were drawn to her. Not because of her stature, she was a mere five feet, or because of her beauty, the deep map of wrinkles reflected a hard lived life. She emitted an aura, a presence, somewhat of an invisible force field encircling her. She sat facing me, positioning her frayed nylon grocery bag with the unstable rolly wheels that awkwardly turn this way and that in between her thick ankles hidden by sagging, opaque, practical pantyhose.

I tried not to stare but I couldn’t help watching this woman with the too bright, too thick, too pasty hot pink lipstick covering not only her lips but the skin just beyond as well. Her fingers caressed the long strand of smooth round beads in her hand as her bright lips began chanting. The words poured forth in an abrasive, staccato Spanish; my mind raced to translate. “God…sky…rain…earth…sun…people…Jesus…” My eyes glossed over the words in my magazine that I wasn’t reading. I listened more intently. What I assumed was a prayer ended and without a pause what I recognized, by words and by cadence, to be the Lord’s Prayer began. Passengers boarded and debarked the train, briefly acknowledging this elderly Latina lady invoking God’s blessing on our BART train.

Her chanting should have annoyed me. She was loud. She was incomprehensible. She was violating the never stated, yet understood, mores for public transportation. As I stood and prepared to exit, gathering my unread magazine and overstuffed purse, a spiritual began. I reluctantly departed the train car, slowly exiting the shadow of her mysticism, entering the world of the mundane once again.

Minimum For What?

In a store, I noticed a poster stating the federal minimum wage, $5.15 per hour. The California minimum wage is $6.75 per hour. I ran some quick figures in my head. Assuming a 40 hour work week, that works out to be about $1000 per month, pre tax. Given the cost of living here in the Bay Area, I wonder how anyone could survive on that.

Stating the Not Obvious

As I was reviewing a course on ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act), I ran across this sentence, “Remember that dogs are *not* the only type of service animals.”

This caused me to ponder. What other kinds of service animals are there, or could there be? I thought of recent animals I’ve seen around the city lately. Iguanas. Ferrets. Pythons. What could they be trained to do?

One of These

From afar, it almost appeared to be a military exercise in progress. A single file line, legs marching in perfect unison, arms swinging, left arm forward, right arm forward, left arm forward, perfectly bent at 90 degree angles. The participants were a motley crew led by a free-flowing, long haired, new age, middle aged woman. Behind her followed disciples of all ages from all walks of life: an elderly woman comfortable in her frayed sweatsuit, an upright business man appearing somewhat constrained in his three piece suit, a tattooed young woman toting a colorful yoga mat. All were chanting as one, jumbled words I couldn’t quite understand. It wasn’t a protest, but a meditation, a declaration of love for the universe. I watched with fascination as this line passed by me, my attention snagged by the penultimate character. A balding Asian grandfather sporting practical khakis and a cardigan, hunched over his cell phone, text messaging as he marched along.

Real Letter

“Dear Customer,

Thank you for the opportunity to help plan your telecommunications service. The enclosed material confirms:

* The services you recently ordered

* The itemized monthly rates for those services

* Any service connection charges

* Your service order number

(nothing was enclosed)

Thank you for bringing your business to Pacific Bell.

Sincerely,

Big System”

Couldn’t they have at least made up a fake name?

A Few of My Favorite Things

A co-worker recently returned from a vacation in Hong Kong. She brought lots of candies and cookies back for us in the office to share. As I picked up a brightly colored hot pink foil wrapped cookie I read these words:

FRENCH COOKIES

Dreaming Paris down the river

Feeling romantic just you and me

Strawberry

Love

Only one taste you’ll see

Only Paris romance

It’s one of the things I miss most about living in Asia. Reading the absolutely ridiculous, thoroughly entertaining marketing presentations.

I tossed and turned the entire way back. My eyelids drooped; my long legs rammed into the seat in front of me. My head bobbed back and forth as sleep almost enveloped me, nothing to support me in the aisle seat I occupied. I woke with a start as the plane forcefully met the runway at SFO. I slowly coaxed myself back to consciousness as the aircraft taxied to the gate.

The man in the row behind me was excited. He was making staccato little noises, engaging his fellow rowmates. Click, click, click. “Oh, my god. No. No.” I tilted my head back to peer at him through the tiny crack between my aisle seat and the middle seat occupied by an elderly woman. He had a Blackberry in his hands, anxiously reading something on the screen. My first thought was that he shouldn’t be using a device that could possibly interfere with the navigation systems. I have an innate fear that someone will be using his cell phone or radio as we’re taxiing to the gate, a signal will be misinterpreted by the pilots, and the plane will turn around and take off for Kalamazoo. Irrational? Yes. But my fear nonetheless.

I was intrigued by this maverick. This person who had no consideration for the rules of safe air travel. This older gentleman in his pin striped shirt and bow tie with his pomaded hair. I eavesdropped on his conversation. No, his monologue.

“This is huge. Huge, I tell you. Do you realize how huge this is? We are at war. War. War, I say. This is momentous. Historical. Years from now people will ask you where you were when the war broke out. History. You will never forget this.” The two others in his row had that anxious look on their faces, that look of being trapped and not knowing when an opportunity for escape would arise.

At that point I realized what had happened as I fought sleep during the 3 1/2 hour trip from Minneapolis.

Bush had done it. War had begun.

I guess I knew it would happen. I mean, come on. The ultimatum Bush gave Hussein was a farce. What leader would voluntarily leave his country? No true leader would. Now more than just my eyelids were heavy. I thought of all the people whose lives would be forever changed by this decision. The men and women in the armed forces, from all countries involved. The families of those fighting in the war. The citizen casualties. The families of the POWs that will be captured, never knowing if their loved ones are alive, dead, or tortured.

As the taxi drove into San Francisco I heard the newscasts over the radio, blurred by my own thoughts. I saw the skyline of the city I’ve called home for so many years. The lights of the TransAmerica tower glistening, the Bay Bridge sparkling in the distance. I envisioned this city, my home, the recipient of an attack. The missiles exploding, the tanks barreling down Market Street, the windows of buildings sending shards of glass shattered from shock waves. Irrational? Maybe. But my fear nonetheless.

This morning I turned the news on while getting ready for work. Something I hardly ever do. The first story was live from Kuwait City. The city where I lived after graduating from college. The city where I taught at the International School, taught eager fifth graders from Kuwait, Syria, Lebanon, Bahrain, Egypt, Australia, and the US. The city just recovering from the Gulf War, still recovering live mines from the ocean, swept out by the tides then back in, stranded on the beaches. The city where, two years after the Gulf War ended they finally began replanting the palm trees. They finally were bringing life back into a country so long ravaged by death.

The story detailed the missile attacks in northern Kuwait. I thought back, 10 years ago, to the students and their families. The families who had suffered such loss during the Iraqi invasion. Families in which fathers, husbands, uncles, brothers, were still unaccounted. I wondered how many of those same families will be grieving losses at the end of this war. I wondered how many families here will be grieving losses at the end of this war. Irrational? No. My fear nonetheless.