Slightly Cursed

It was one of the few times I’ve ever been on time to anything. We’d arrived early to meet with the rest of the students taking Geology of the Grand Canyon, so I should’ve known we were doomed. There’s a cosmic inversion of luck between my time of arrival and the time of departure.

The earlier and more prepared I am, the worse things are going to go. My current theory is that if I’m too early I become an object at rest, unable to repel the cosmic cursewaves.

My boyfriend’s truck was loaded with a week’s worth of camping supplies and gear for more than two dozen students. We started our caravan to the Grand Canyon almost an hour behind schedule because nearly a third of the class, one professor, and the guy in charge of picking up the college van still used sundials to tell time. Literally. They’d stand and point at the sun and the shadows and argue about it.

We were passing through downtown Blinkenmissit, Utah, when the flashy lights in the side mirrors caught our attention. “Huh,” I said. “He must be after someone.” A quick, paranoid check confirmed that we weren’t speeding.

Half of a mile later, the police car bleeped at us. The officer was gesturing for us to pull over. I said, “Apparently, he’s after us.” We pulled over while the rest of our caravaners slowed to snicker and point as they passed us.

Rolling down his window as the officer approached, Boyfriend said, “Can I help you officer?” We hadn’t broken any traffic laws, and all of our lights were working properly. We were on the side of the road and no one else was around. Scenes from The Hitcher and Macon County Line flashed through my head. I glanced over to make sure the cop didn’t look like Rutger Hauer or Jethro.

Thumbs hitched to his belt, the cop thrust forward his ample belly, snapped his gum, and drawled, “You were driving too close to the center line.”

Huh? How does one drive “too close” to the center line? As in many very important life boundaries, I was certain this one came under the “breaking the plane” rule.

Boyfriend’s mouth said, “Um, I’m not sure what you mean by “too close.” Are we getting a ticket or something?” But his eyes clearly said, “Are you out of your mind?” Officer Jethro changed tactics, harassing us about a small crack in the passenger side of the windshield instead. Because that wasn’t nearly as stupid. Once again, I tested fate by pointing out that the windshield was, in fact, legal due to size and placement of the crack.

Twenty minutes later, Officer Jethro generously let us go without a ticket for doing nothing wrong. Yay! The system works! We escaped, carefully driving in the exact center of the lane for the rest of Utah.

The truck, sensing our relief, started making scary noises. “Wheel bearing,” said my boyfriend, the mechanic. “I had a feeling this would happen. I’ll repack it Tuba City when we meet up with the van.” In a sunbaked (I know–redundant for Arizona) empty lot he magically produced wrenches, tools, and new bearing junk that he’d brought along “just in case.”

I’ve discovered that a wrench, flashing brightly in the mid-day Arizona sun, causes instantaneous brain damage to every man within 500ft of it. Like raccoons, every male student in our caravan gravitated toward the shiny object. A pack of them wandered over to stand around near the truck and talk about Man Stuff.

Boyfriend plowed through the crowd, scooted under the front of the truck, and stated, “Why don’t you guys go get something to eat. It’ll take me 45 minutes at most to fix this.”

Ha.

I’m not sure if it was the sweltering midday heat or a sudden build-up of testosterone at the sight of power tools. Whatever it was, the men morphed into instant experts on all things bearings. And they were in a sharing mood. Frustrated, and out of goopy stuff, we sent a few of the more “helpful” guys to find a parts store while another group went in search of beer.

Boyfriend grimly worked on his task, surrounded by eleventy-billion college students who were all arguing about the best way to repack wheel bearings, when an unfamiliar voice sliced through the clamor, “You sure you doin’ that right?”

We’d been infiltrated by a tiny, 200 year old Navajo with a big bottle of whiskey and three fuzzy teeth. He was armed with toxic halitosis and an aversion to water; we were careful not to get too close. Leaning down to get a better look, he told my boyfriend, the mechanic, “I know a thing or two about packin’ bearin’s.” With bleary eyes and a wide, gaping grin he and several of his magically appearing friends settled in with the undergrads to advise and annoy Boyfriend.

Two hours, several whiners, one near-fight, and another drunken local later, we were back on the road! We headed toward the Grand Canyon, our camp site, and the promise of a shower. Boyfriend, having had enough advice crossed the Reservation in record time. In the exact center of the lane.

We pulled in at almost ten o’clock that night. Four hours late, sunburned, dirty, and itchy from sweat, we arrived in time to set up camp in the middle of a freak blizzard and two feet of snow.

I slept in a bed that night.

written by vic

We’d stopped for gas, and for one of my many, many, many, many stops to pee, at one of those gazillion-year-old convenience stores. There wasn’t another bathroom for miles. I was pregnant again, and in my sixth month of throwing up. It was the middle of an Iowan blizzard, and my husband wasn’t driving right. He never drives right.

Anyway, I was the first one to go in to the tiny, one-person bathroom; nobody dared get in front of me. Starting the ancient gas pump, my husband then followed me with all the kids because they of course all wanted to pee too. I busted him sneaking nasty greasy hotdogs when I returned. “It’s for the kids!”

(Note to Men: It doesn’t work.)

I glared at his impressively nauseating collection of tubular, greenish-yellow-hued meat-like substances. They glistened under the fluorescent lighting, resting in soggy grease-soaked buns. He didn’t think I noticed that one of the greasy meat sticks was an enormous Polish dog, but I did. You can’t ever leave him alone with green, convenience store meat. Not even for a second.

He smiled, quickly stuffing half of a Polish into his mouth. Sighing, I grabbed my bag of snacks, and wobbled outside toward the van like a giant, cranky Weeble, now nauseous from the sight of the meat by-products. Reaching for the door handle, I heard a sound no one wants to hear when they’re freezing to death in the middle of West Desolation, Iowa:

“SNICK!”

The engine hummed contentedly. It was so cold outside that, despite dire warnings of imprisonment and impending danger from Hollywoodesque explosions printed on the gas pump, my husband had left the van on while gassing up. It really did seem like a good idea at the time.

My nose-hairs froze solid, into little internal nose-needles as I gazed mutely into the warm, lit interior of my minivan. Our well-fed cat, Baby Kitty, stared back. He was totally unconcerned with my plight.

Stepping off of the passenger door button panel, Baby paced the dashboard. Then, curling himself up in the driver’s seat, he settled in comfortably. We continued to stare at each other. Cats are good at that, and they almost always win. Baby was a pro. Hissing at me, he sharpened his fingernails on my seat, staring at me some more.

I went back into the store to break the news to my family. And to pee. Again.

“You need to call AAA.” I said to my husband. He gave me a strange look. I think he was afraid to ask. By this time, we’d been married a few years. He’d long since advanced from, “oh, that really wouldn’t ever happen,” to, “please dear god don’t let it get any worse.” I saw fear in his eyes.

He stuffed the rest of what was probably his ninth Polish into his mouth before asking me the overused and generally dreaded, “What happened this time?”

“Baby locked us out. I reached for the handle, and he jumped on the button. I think he did it on purpose. Please call AAA.” I perused the aisle of the store as my husband used the phone to call for road service, only to learn that it would be at least two-to-three hours because of the blizzard, if at all. He fumed, calling the cat several interesting and creative names and making vague references to the wood chipper and the compost heap.

Then I saw a little dangling cat toy in the store’s pet section and had my first brilliant idea since, well, I got pregnant.

I did what had to be done: I made my husband go out into the blizzard to coax Baby to walk on the “unlock” button and free us.

I watched out the window as he tried to coax the cat up onto the door handle. Wiggling his fingers left and right, he tried getting the cat’s hunting instincts going. I’m pretty sure Baby was psychic, and he knew my husband wanted to kill him. The feeling had always been mutual.

My husband jumped to grab the handle; then he had a tantrum. The cat had cruelly teased him, unlocking the door only to lock it back up with another foot less than a second later.

As I choked back my laughter, he stalked back into the store, growling about how “animals [had] no place living alongside humans and that they all should be thrown out in the cold because they have fur.”

Handing him another Polish dog, I stepped out into the howling wind.

Leaning against the passenger door, I rubbed food slowly along the window, refusing to look at him. In less than two minutes, I heard the click of toenails on the window. Baby hated being ignored almost as much as he loved food. He squeaked at me; the food moved slowly across the window. Tracking it, he tiptoed across the dash, avoiding the door.

Ready to give up and send the husband back out for a turn, I heard that wonderful:

“SNICK!”

I’d like to say that Baby had cooperated, but he’d actually tripped over himself and fell on the button while begging.

I was literally bouncing when I went back inside, this time with the key. He said, “Wow. You can bounce. I’m impressed.” He looked at my belly and said, “Don’t do that anymore, Ok?” I considered kicking him in the ankle as I waddled off to pee again before we left.

In all, it only cost us about an hour. Unlike that time in Kearny, Nebraska.

written by vic