My husband believes that Murphy's Law applies only to him. He is positive that there is some kind of personal vendetta against him which means that everything will go wrong if it possibly can . . . but only for him. Even watching my life for the past thirty years has not dissuaded him from that notion. If anything were ever going to force him to see that we all suffer from the legacy left by good ol' Murph, surely Friday the 22nd would have done it. It was just days after an earthquake had damaged the house we were renting and, among other things, we were looking for a place to live .
Ken had traded his big four-wheel drive pick up in for a little tin-can of a brown station wagon. Ken knew it would probably triple the gas mileage he was getting and that would have a significant effect on our budget.
"I don't like it," I said with finality. It wasn't a bad car, mind you, but for some reason I had taken an instant and unreasonable dislike to it. When the used car dealer got the title to us and we took it in to the Department of Motor Vehicles to transfer it, that agency would not complete the transfer. There was some kind of discrepancy about the mileage and we could not get a title. Ken contacted the dealer; he refused to sign anything to clear up the problem. Ken dickered with him for a while but finally gave up and went looking for another car. He found a nice blue Taurus station wagon that we both liked really well.
"OK," the dealer told Ken over the phone, "I'll buy it back from you. In fact, I'll give you a hundred dollars more than you paid me for it."
"What?!" I shrieked at Ken, "You can't agree to that!" I was outraged. To my way of reckoning, that meant he would be stealing Ken's pickup for $100. We had turned down cash offers on the truck for $1,500.
"Look," Ken sounded determined, "just what do you want me to do about it? He's got our money; he's got the pickup."
"But Ken," I continued to rage, "you can't let him get away with this. It's not honest!"
"That's enough!" Ken used the tone of voice I use on the kids when they are fighting, "We not only can't afford a lawyer, we don't have the time. We have got to have another vehicle and we can't insure one we can't get a title on." It really did seem like he had us between a rock and a hard place and he probably knew it. I envisioned him sitting there with his feet on his desk, hands behind his head leering and chuckling.
Much to my dismay, Ken insisted that I drive the car back to the original dealer so we could get a check and pay for the Taurus. "Don't you dare be rude to him, either!" he demanded. "For that matter, just keep your mouth shut! I mean it." Ken rarely (if ever) gave ultimatums and I knew that he meant what he said absolutely. He probably could tell from my face that what I wanted to do was rant and rave and scream at that man until he agreed to do the right thing. I felt my stress level skyrocket as I was driving over. When I arrived, he was gone and I had to wait on his doorstep, giving me plenty of time to contemplate what he had done. When he finally got there, he was cheerful and friendly. My goodness, why not? He was getting a pickup worth about $1800 for only $100. He was a shrewd businessman, alright. I did not want to be cheerful and friendly; I'd have just as soon spit in his face if I only knew how to spit.
"Come on in," he said, "Here, have a seat." He pulled out a chair for me and seemed to actually expect me to take it. He must have thought I was a complete idiot and hadn't the brains to figure out that he was a con man, a minor league thug who had stolen our pickup while we watched. "Grand Theft, Auto" had a nice, satisfying ring to it.
"I'll stand, thank you," I said in the iciest tones I could manage, "I just need the check. Ken will be here momentarily to pick me up."
He put his jacket back on and, thankfully, made no further attempts at small talk. I was hoping I made him nervous.
"Don't say a word," Ken hissed when he arrived with the kids to pick me up several minutes later. He smiled and actually thanked that crook. I couldn't believe it. I kept my mouth shut, but I felt like a volcano building up pressure to explode. We made it back to the second dealer and paid for the Taurus then he dropped the kids and me off at home and hurried off to work.
I raged around the house like a caged bear, righteously indignant. The kids stayed out of my way and left me alone.
In the afternoon, Ken called from work. "One of the realtors in town just called because there's a house for rent several miles up Silver Falls Highway. Why don't you take the kids up to look at it. He'll want an answer first thing in the morning because he has several other people looking for a place, too."
I cleaned the kids up and loaded them into the car as quickly as I could. It was already late and my car had a faulty alternator so that I couldn't use the headlights. We needed to look at the house and get back home before dark. I also had to stop at the store and pick up dog food.
The drive was nice. The trees and scenery along that highway are beautiful and had a calming effect on my jangled nerves. The house, when we got there, was not perfect, but it would do if we couldn't find anything else. We were not able to go inside, however, leaving nagging doubts about its living condition. It was situated so that it was quite isolated and I loved that aspect of it. There was also enough land for the kids to have plenty of room. Maybe things were looking up.
We stopped by Ken's office on the way back to report on our findings and tell him exactly how far it would be to town and to work. He gave us the bad news, "The owners have a balloon payment due in two months and, although they will rent it, they are also trying desperately to sell. If we commit ourselves to the move, we could find ourselves homeless again in less then two months." Another dead end. I wondered if people could feel high blood pressure or if one just keeled over without warning. We headed to the store for the dog food. I felt completely discouraged. "You know what?" I asked of no one in particular, "I don't feel like cooking." The truth was, I didn't feel like doing anything.
"Look, Mom," Karen, our seventeen-year-old daughter, suggested, "let's stop at Figaro's for a take-to-bake pizza. That'll be quick and easy and you won't have to cook. You won't have to do many dishes, either." Although it was not in the budget and I really couldn't afford it, I agreed. I entered the store, ordered the pizza and told them I'd be back in a few minutes to pick it up: we were going to scoot over to Safeway at the other side of the parking lot to get dog food.
I unhooked Garret, who was one, from his car seat and picked him up. Brian, four, and Elizabeth, seven, held Karen's hands as we started for the store. It had drizzled earlier that day and the parking lot was damp in places. At the curb, there was a puddle of mud consisting of dirt, water and the accumulated grease and oil from the vehicles which parked there. Stepping up to the sidewalk, my foot slipped in goo and I fell unceremoniously to the concrete, dropping Garrett who began to scream. I couldn't get my feet under me in the slime and hysteria was rising over my concern for Garrett. A store clerk had dashed out and picked up the baby; someone else helped me up. Garrett's lip was cut and bleeding slightly and he had a scrape on his forehead, but other than that, he looked OK. I, on the other hand, looked like a defeated mud-wrestler. My stockings were shredded and my legs, skirt and cardigan sweater were caked in the filthy, greasy mud. I took Garrett.
"Karen," I turned to her, "you take Elizabeth and Brian and get the dog food. I'm going back to the car. Here's the money."
At the car, I put Garrett back in his car seat and pondered my options. I could not possibly get in the car that muddy! I was parked next to another vehicle and, by opening both the front and back doors on the drivers side of my car, I created a small "dressing room" there in the middle of the parking lot. I took off my skirt, turned it inside out and laid it over the back of the seat. I stripped off my disgusting stockings and put them in the garbage bag in the car. My sweater was last. I climbed back in the car in my black slip, which was also damp, and my blouse. I was beyond tears. I folded my arms across the steering wheel and put my head down, drained.
Moments later, I looked up to see Karen just stepping off the curb. She had no dog food. What she did have was Brian. He had his arms out in front of him "zombie" style and his mouth was wide open, obviously screaming. Elizabeth was trailing behind. "Oh no," was my immediate reaction, "Brian has mis-behaved again and she refuses to take him with her." Karen opened the car door and stuck her head in.
"How would you like to take Brian to the hospital?" she asked sardonically, "He cut off the end of his finger." I could then see Brians's bloody finger dripping in the parking lot.
"Get in," was all I said. I was even beyond responding emotionally. They all piled in, I found Brian a napkin to wrap his finger in and started the car.
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah," he squalled. I wondered if he would have to stop sometime to breath.
Fortunately, the hospital was less than a mile away. It seems Brian had been riding on the bottom of the baskart when he spotted something on the floor, reached to get it, and got his finger caught in the wheel. When we arrived at the Emergency Room door, Karen finally took a good look at me.
"You can't go in there," she exclaimed, aghast, raising her voice to be heard over Brian, "you don't have any clothes on!"
"Just watch me," I was emphatic. "I'm an EMT. Half of the people we bring in here are completely naked. Maybe no one will notice." I scooped up Brian, who was still screaming, and headed inside.
"Wait," Karen called, "give me the car keys." I tossed them her way.
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" Brian continued at umpteen decibles.
Once inside, I sat, calmly trying to answer questions while soothing Brian and pretending like I was wearing more than my underwear. I'm fairly positive now that people cannot feel high blood pressure. I'm sure mine was close to the boiling point but I couldn't tell. I'm sure Brian was in pain, also, but I was not convinced that it required the unceasing caterwauling. Others in the ER were becoming agitated, as well. From there is was in to a treatment room where we unwrapped the napkin to discover that the finger itself seemed to be intact, but the nail had been peeled off, taking a bit of flesh with it.
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!" Brian was giving no one a reprieve.
When the doctor arrived, I felt an almost uncontrollable urge to laugh. I had to keep fighting down little fits of giggles: I may have been in my underwear, but he was in paper pajamas, for crying out loud. I wanted to take the thought back. Brian was definitely already crying out loud.
Karen found me before the doctor was done with Brian. She had gone into town and bought a pair of black cotton slacks. Brian's finger was anesthetized finally and once they finished cleaning and bandaging it, his unceasing wail subsided. With him quiet, Karen agreed to stay with him while I went to the rest room and put on my new pants. I bundled my slip into my purse.
Leaving the hospital, we remembered the pizza. It was late and we had to hurry. Karen slipped inside, apologized without explanation for taking so long to pick it up, and popped back out to the car. Now we faced a new dilemma: I had paid the hospital my co-payment amount and we had no money for the dog food. The town we were in had no branch for my bank. We drove to a nearby town, used my bank card to withdraw cash and Karen, alone this time, bought dog food. It was now dark.
"Alright, guys," I told them, "I'm going to turn on the headlights as briefly as possible. As soon as we're out of town, I'm going to turn them off. I don't want you to make a sound. I'll be driving in the dark and I'll need to concentrate." Hesitantly, I turned on the headlights. I knew they would not last until we were home. We took all the back roads, driving in the dark when we could, using the headlights sparingly. They grew dimmer and dimmer. When we did finally pull into our own driveway, the lights were completely out but we had neither had nor caused an accident. I felt fortunate. Think of what could have happened if we had been spotted by a deputy sheriff. Now that would have been a really bad day!
On Saturday evening, I got a phone call from our oldest daughter, Sarah, who worked in another section of the hospital in administration and had her own apartment in another town.
," she said, "how's Brian?"
"He's fine," I told her, a little perplexed, "how did you know anything was wrong?"
"Well," she responded, "I had to go down to the office for something today and I ran into Patty. She was in admitting last night and said you had been in with my brother who had hurt his finger. What happened?"
I explained how Brian's finger had gotten "peeled" in the baskart wheel.
"Ouch!" she verbally winced. "Patty said he was screaming enough for a couple of people. I knew Brian's screaming was not a good indication of how he was, though, so I asked her how you were. I figured that'd be a pretty good barometer of how bad it really was."
"What'd she say?" I was really curious.
"Oh, she said you were your normal calm, unperturbed self so I knew nothing particularly awful had happened or I'd have called sooner."
I guess I don't want to be there when "particularly awful" actually happens . . . !
