Charlie and the Junker Factory

Back in January of 2012, we were looking for a new (to us) car.  Charlie was, at the time, driving his mom's old Buick and I was still driving our van.  I wrote a post about it here.  Long story short, we didn't end up turning the van in as a trade-in.  When we went home to start it up, it was completely, catastrophically dead.  We knew it had problems, which is why it was time.  But because we couldn't start it, Charlie just decided to make a cash down payment and we brought home my little "Aubergine", a used Nissan Rogue in a color the maker calls "Iridium", but looks kinda purply-brown in the sun.  I drove the Rogue, and Charlie continued to drive mom's old Buick. 

The van sat in the driveway, unused for three years.  In those three years, we got constant inquiries from gardeners and painters in the neighborhood.  The doorbell would ring on a regular basis with people asking if we wanted to sell it.  Unfortunately, the person that he is, my husband said he could not, in good conscience, sell a vehicle that didn't run, and he just didn't have the time or inclination to fix it up enough to get it running.  So there the van sat, like a wallflower at the dance, waiting for her handsome prince to come and ask her for a spin. 

All the while, Charlie drove that old Buick.  The headliner was droopy and wrinkled like last Saturday's Walk-of-Shame dress, the floorboard on the driver's side was rusting away and you could actually see the road below in a little hole, the seats had worn down and you could feel the springs poking your butt.  You couldn't wash it because every time you tried, the paint would come off in large sheets.  I told him the paint was all that was holding it together, so he'd better stop washing it.  I begged him.  I pleaded with him.  "Please Charlie.  Please let's go look at a more reliable, safer used car.  I worry about you in that car."  He shrugged his shoulders and said he was fine.  The car is running well and still has life and we just can't afford another car payment right now.   That was until last year, when mom's old Buick died.  I thought to myself; "This is it!  Finally!  He'll get himself a better vehicle!"  Nope.

He went down to Pep Boys auto supply and started buying parts to fix....THE VAN.  Yep, the sweet little wallflower from the prom was being asked to dance again.  I complained and whined and moaned about the time and money he was spending on car repairs, all of this falling upon deaf ear.  No literally, he's deaf in one ear.  He got the van running, quite proud of himself.  While he was working on it, the neighbor's gardener came running over, quite excited, and asked if he was finally fixing it up to sell to him.  You should have seen the sad look on his face when Charlie told him that yes, he was fixing it up, but that he was going to keep it to drive it himself.  Such a sad, sad face.  I felt sorry for him, shrugging my shoulders as he looked at me with those sad puppy eyes, then walked away, dejected.  Three years of hope, for both of us, down the drain pan.  On the other hand, here was Charlie, holding his arms in the air, flexing his muscles like He-Man, victorious in resurrecting the dead van.  His last act in the circle of car life that rotates in this house?  He called a veterans organization and donated mom's old Buick.  For some reason, they were grateful to have it.

So, for the last year and a half, my frugal selfless husband has driven the faithful family van.  As with the Buick, the headliner drooped, nay, it ripped open.  We held it up first with safety pins until those rusted and the foam underneath crumbled like feta cheese.  If you drove with the window down, which you HAD to do because the motor for the window didn't work, the foam "snow" would fly into your face.  So then, we tried duct tape.  Classy.  It was good the window stayed down because the AC didn't work, turning the van into a rolling sauna in the summer.  The driver's seat broke, so Charlie replaced it with the passenger seat, leaving the passenger side empty.  The paint completely oxidized.  You couldn't open the driver's side door because the handle was broken.  You had to go in through the side slider, or the passenger side.  He said; "See?  It's easier now to get to the driver's side now that there's no passenger seat!"  Always the optimist, my husband.  He fixed little things as they came along, me still complaining about pouring money into it.  "Luckily, I'm a very handy guy!"  I sigh with each of his optimistic chirpings.

Last Friday, Charlie tells me that he paid the DMV registration on the van, but that it needs to get a smog test before they'll send the stickers.  "When's it due?", I asked.  "The 31st", his reply.  WHAT??  That's next week!  "Yeah, I know.  We've just been so busy."  Le sigh.  So I tell him to take the Rogue to work and I'll drive the van over to the Auto Club and get it smogged.  Cut to the chase, the guy at the Auto Club tells me it's not even testable because there's an exhaust leak.  We need a new muffler AND he says, we probably have a head gasket problem on the way.  Great.  More money.  I call Charlie at work and tell him the news.  He said he had an idea that was going to be the case.  I turn on the whining and tell him he really needs to think about a car.  He rebuts with the usual budget limitations, me not working, etc.  The weekend comes and goes, and on Monday, Charlie comes home from work holding printouts of used cars at local car lots.  Wait...what?

Charlie:  "I called several muffler places and told them what I needed.  Basically, they all said I'm looking at an easy $3500 to do what needs to be done.  All this, just to get it smog tested.  Yeah, I'm not doing that.  So, I relent.  It's time."

Pua:  "Halle-F-ing-lu-jah!"

Ladies and Gentlemen, without further ado, I present to you, my sweet, deserving husband's new (to him) ride.  If anyone deserves a car, this wonderful guy does.  This guy who has been driving klunkers for pretty much the entirety of the kids' lives.  While he gives me the safe, reliable car, he sacrifices without a single complaint.  Day in, day out, not a peep of complaint even though I know he's been in true, physical pain climbing in and out of that van with his bad back.  That's my Charlie.  I'm overjoyed for him.  Yes, like a true engineer he went over it with a fine tooth comb, haggled prices, got what he wanted in the way of price that would fit our meager budget and not put a strain on us while I'm unemployed.  Yes, it's an economy car.  No, it's nothing fancy even though he deserves so much more.  But it's very Charlie.  Deserving, wonderful, unselfish Charlie.  "So shines a good deed in a weary world."

The van?  We practically had to pay THEM to take it.  "But...", says Charlie, "We got every last mile out of that old girl, didn't we?"  Yes, Sweetie we did.  Thanks to you.

The Interview

No, not the Rogan-Franco one. Not the Kelly-Drumpf one either (but didn't he say he'd never talk with her?) My interview yesterday. As mentioned, it went well. It's what happened AFTER that took some time to digest.  I guess I was still trying to come down (no pun intended) from being stuck in the building elevator with Mr. Claustrophobia. You know, I'm not completely afraid of tight spaces.  After all, I squeeze my formidable okole into a pair of clean panties every morning.  I have more of an issue with trypophobia (seriously, don't google that with images) or acrophobia.  However, being stuck with someone who is claustrophobic can really make you feel like you are too. 

 

 

 

It's good I remembered I'm a mother because the soothing voices and the memories of Lamaze patterned breathing soon kicked in.  It had to.  I went into survival mode myself, because this young man was completely coming unglued in a matter of minutes.  He did what everyone does as a first response; he pushed buttons.  He pushed all the floor buttons, he pushed the open/close buttons, and finally he found the one button that would soon prove to become my own undoing if I didn't calm him down...he found the red emergency button. 

 

Now, this is the third time in my life I've been stuck in an elevator.  The first time, I was 7 months pregnant with Averie.  Luckily, it was in the building that my OB-GYN was in, and I was stuck with two other expectant mothers.  One of them was due the following day.  Funny thing is, none of us panicked.  In fact, after opening the little door with the phone and letting whomever was on the other end know we were stuck, we started talking about; what else?; all things babies.  Childbirth methods, labor fears, mothering fears, nursing, etc.  The time passed quickly, no one went into labor, and soon we were moving again and out of the elevator.  I became friends with one of those women and we're still in contact today.  I call this a happy accident.  A good kind of "stuck in elevator" story, if you will.

 

The second time I was stuck in an elevator was between the 6th and 7th floor of the Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas.  We were in Sin City to celebrate Caris' 21st birthday.  Where else would we stay for a Caris celebration, than a hotel that is smothered in pink?  After having had some fun the night before at a dinner show, Averie, Caris, and Caitlyn were still asleep.  I'm an early bird, and as it was only 5 am and I knew I had some time to kill before the girls would be up and around, I got dressed and went down to the casino to have some coffee and spin the wheel of fortune.  Three hours and the most expensive cups of coffee later, I thought it was time to get back upstairs and rouse the gang for breakfast.  I stopped at the coffee bar to get three cappuccinos, then headed to the elevator.  Cue dramatic music of pending doom (or is it?) here. 

 

I got into the empty elevator, turned to push the button for the 9th floor while balancing a tray of coffee cups, then looked up to see a VERY large wall of a man standing next to me.  He wore a big Stetson, some fine looking Justin boots (I asked), a big silver belt buckle, probably his "going to a barn-raising party" finery (pearl snap buttons), and a very pretty silver engraved bolo tie.  He looked at me, smiled and nodded, raised his hand to his hat, I thought to tip it, but he actually surprised me by removing it and holding it next to him in one hand.  In the other hand, he held a very large mug type glass in the shape of a boot.  Yes, a boot.  It wasn't a Justin (I asked).  It was just at this point that the elevator came to a very sudden halt, jostling me enough to push my back against the wall of the elevator while trying my best to make sure I didn't spill hot coffee.  I felt a big hand steady my arm.  To which, this booming voice over the top of my head (he was a good 6'7" and probably 350 lbs. easy) says;  "You okay, Darlin?"  For some stupid reason, I turned into a teenaged girl because my only response was to giggle.  Good gravy, I giggled.  No one has called me "Darlin" since I lei'd Toby Keith (oh yes, I did). Well, he and my sweet Texas friend, Boogie (Damn, I miss him).  Apparently, I blushed too because I could feel it.  I assured him I was fine, thanked him for his chivalry, and for the next 45 minutes, again after calmly calling someone, we waited and passed the time.  I did tease him about the boot mug.  His turn to blush.  He asked if it were filled with rye would he be redeemed.  I laughed and told him it probably made it worse in a couple ways.  I reminded him that it was 8 am and held up my coffee tray, and said he might not want his friends to see him holding that mug; rye or no rye.  He reminded me it was Vegas and he'd been playing poker, so he honestly wasn't aware what time it was, and he was just now, on his way up to bed.  Fair note.  Soon, the doors opened, albeit between floors, but they got us within an easy hop down. 

 

 He wished my daughter a happy birthday, I wished him a good rest, we thanked each other for passing the time so easily, then he donned his beautiful Stetson, and we parted ways.  My phone rang.  It was Caris wondering where I was.  "I have coffee (it was cold).  And a story (heartwarming).  I'll be right there."  Another good "stuck in an elevator" story.  Then, there's yesterday.

 

After merely three minutes, my friend started to sweat, swear, and generally freak out.  He was young, maybe 30.  He kept looking at me like I needed to save him.  So, I calmly asked him if he knew how to meditate.  He looked at me like I had two heads and started pushing that red button again.  Let me tell any of you out there who don't know what that red button does; it is a bell.  A VERY VERY LOUD BELL.  Like a school fire drill bell.  Like the bell that goes off in a firehouse when there's an emergency.  THAT kind of bell.  Now, put that bell in a very small, closed in elevator, and add it to the yelling of a panicked human being.  Not good.  I asked him to please calm down.  We were not in a tower.  We were in an atrium-style building with an open courtyard.  Only 4 floors.  I know none of this mattered to him, but I thought if by talking I could get him to stop yelling and pushing that damn bell, I could maintain my own sanity.  I knew there were people all over the building and in the courtyard that could definitely hear us, and help would arrive soon.  I asked him about himself, why he was in the building, if he was coming or going, where he was going after this ("a bar", he responded.  "me too", I thought).  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and leaned against the wall.  "See?" I said.  "You DO know how to meditate!"  He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.  We heard someone outside say that help was coming.  I envisioned this:

 

or this...

 

 

What we got was basically this:

 

 

But, at least I avoided this (sort of):

 

And made it back to this:

 

 

Oh yeah, the interview.  You know the drill.  Don't call us, we'll call you.  On to the next adventure.