John Swinburn

You would think a mechanic, asked to check the road-worthiness of a vehicle in advance of a trip, would consider all major systems of a vehicle. At least I would have that expectation. Among the “systems” I would expect the mechanic to inspect and address, without being specifically asked, would be steering/front end, transmission, engine, and tire condition, among others. This issue is on my mind because, yesterday, I experienced what could have been the fatal results of the mechanic’s incompetence. To be clear, I cannot be certain the mechanic is to blame; perhaps circumstance and coincidence conspired. Perhaps the placement of blame on the mechanic is misplaced. But I don’t think so. I assign full blame to the mechanic who, I believe, was simply too lazy to explore all aspects of the vehicle that should have been examined or too greedy to do so within an agreed “road-worthiness” evaluation.

Back to the events. I had flown to Dallas last Friday with the express purpose of purchasing back from a friend the truck I sold to him a few years ago. He was ready to get rid of it; I was ready to have it back and put it to use. It has some sentimental value, too; I ‘inherited’ it from my sister on her death several years ago. It’s an old clunker of a truck. It was misused and abused before I inherited it; dents, torn or missing pin stripes, scrapes, scratches, and nicks attested not to a lack of care, but a lack of kid glove treatment. At any rate, I found a crazy discount airfare to Dallas from Hot Springs, so I grabbed it. My friend picked me up at DFW in Dallas, at the corporate aviation building. We made a quick detour for breakfast tacos (among the best I’ve ever eaten, even my own). And then we went home to begin the process:

1) sign paperwork for truck re-homing; 2) decide what we would need for the brisket smoking fest the following day; 3) visit Costco to procure needed ingredients; 4) explore the flavor and decency of specific beers; 5) enjoy dinner together with another long-time friend over superior dishes;  6) drink more; 7) attend the birthday party of an acquaintance; 8) relax in friends’ pool; 9) smoke a brisket; 10) sample yet more beers; 11) etc.

On Sunday morning, I awoke before 6:00, crept out of the house, started up the old truck, and headed for home. A few minutes before 9:00 a.m., I stopped in Texarkana to fill up the gas tank and to take a look around the vehicle; its ride had been rough and the steering a bit wonky. The tread on the front tires looked more worn than I recalled from looking the day before, but I decided it was just my imagination. Once filled with gas, I got back on I-30 heading east. Soon after getting on the road, the ride got considerably worse. At that point, only one lane of I-30 is open; a concrete wall barricades the right hand lane and a narrow gravel shoulder, not meant to be used for traffic, is on the left. I decided, quickly, that I needed to get off the highway as soon as possible. I slowed a bit, but the semi behind me was on my tail, so I increased the speed to around sixty to keep it at bay. Suddenly, I felt the front left side of the car dip. The steering wheel pulled sharply to the left. I simultaneously heard a loud grating, scraping, groaning sound. I worked hard to maintain control of the car as it veered onto the left shoulder, aimed for the deep ditch that was the median. The truck stopped just short of running into the ditch; if it had gone a few feet further, it would have flipped upside down in the median. As it was, its left side was a good three feet lower than the right. But I was fine. My only serious concern at that point was that a vehicle on the road might drift left onto the shoulder and crash into me. I didn’t like where I was, but there was no place else to go and no way to get there.

I climbed out of the truck into tall weeds, and made my way to the front tire. It was a mass of torn rubber, with the steel from the steel belts inside twisted and torn into a chaotic web.

I called AAA. The woman with whom I spoke was very nice, very reassuring, but clearly unable to understand what I told her. I told her I was a few miles east of Texarkana, heading east toward Little Rock. She asked if I could see a mile marker. No, I said, the only sign I could see was on the west-bound side of the freeway, advertising a business at an exit number fifteen miles west of me. I learned later that she told the tow truck driver I was at that exit number, in Texas, heading westbound.

Long before the tow truck arrived, a Road Patrol truck stopped to ask whether I needed assistance. I told the driver I had called AAA, which should have dispatched someone. He said he’d circle back around after a while to see if the tow truck arrived. As he left, I made my way around the right side of the truck to look at the front right tire. It was nearly bald. None of the tread I had seen earlier was visible.

A tow truck driver called my cell phone. He said, “where do you want me to take you?”

“Anyplace that can check out the car and fix it and get me some new tires. The woman with AAA told me there were several Pep Boys nearby that are open on Sunday.”

“Pep Boys! There ain’t no Pep Boys around here. I don’t know of no place open on Sunday.”

“Well, the AAA lady said I was good for a one hundred mile tow; I’m less than a hundred miles from home, so I guess I could just get towed there.”

Shortly thereafter, an Arkansas State Trooper pulled in behind me. He stayed until the tow truck finally arrived. In the interim, he offered to let me sit in the air-conditioned comfort of the back seat of his patrol car. Then he asked to see my license and asked if I was James, the owner of the vehicle shown on his computer screen. I explained that I had just bought the truck back from a friend. While we waited, the tow truck driver called me; he could not find me. I told him I was west of Texarkana, several miles. I told him an Arkansas State Trooper was behind my truck. He asked to speak to the trooper, who said we were near mile marker twelve.  The tow truck driver was more than fifteen miles away, heading in the other direction.

Finally, the tow truck arrived and, after much gnashing of teeth and twisting of cables, pulled the truck onto the bed of the truck. I got in the passenger seat and the driver said he had found a place in Texarkana that could take a look at my car. “I forgot they were open. I’ve towed people to them on Sundays before.”

After arriving at EN Auto, the guys got my car up on a wrack. “At the very least, you’re gonna need two new tires,” the owner said. “If you want, you can got buy them at Walmart and bring them back here. You can use my car. Normally, we’d do it, but it will save time if you want to do it.”

I agreed to go to Walmart. They did not have the size tires I needed. I drove back to the shop. “Did you ask them to check with the other Walmart?”  I told him I did not know there was another Walmart. He called the other one. They, too, said they did not have them. I suggested I leave the vehicle with them so they could get tires; I would rent a car and drive home, returning Monday to get the vehicle.  While we were talking tires, the mechanic was checking out the vehicle. The front end was a mess. It needs new inner and outer tie rods ends, new front shocks, and a new steering gear. In addition, the brake pads and rotor on one side was metal-to-metal and in need of replacement. I told the guys I’d definitely go for the two tires but would have to think about the rest of the stuff overnight. They were fine with that.

I called a cab to give me a ride to the Avis counter at the airport. They advised me it would be 45 minutes to an hour before I could get picked up. I reluctantly said, “fine,” and prepared to wait. The owner of the store went out to the shop and came back in to say his mechanic would give me a ride. As we were heading to the airport, the mechanic told me the front end was in poor condition and really needed work.

“Does it seem to drift all over the road when you’re driving? The condition the front end and especially the steering gear is in make me think the steering would feel real loose. It’s dangerous to drive when the steering is like that.”

I told him he described perfectly the way the vehicle feels when I drive it. “If we fix it for you, it will be tight. You won’t have any more of that. I suspect the blow-out and the other front tire’s damage were caused by the steering problems. That, and the tires have dry rot. They get that if the car sits in the same spot for a long time.  The tires get out of round and they’re susceptible to wearing bad real fast.”

That last bit is good to know; I’ll need to drive it more frequently that I had planned to keep the tires in working order. Who knew? I should have.

He also said the shocks, while not completely shot, were up for grabs. He hadn’t recommended them, he said, because he knew I was getting hit hard with all the expenses associated with the front end problems.

He let me off at the airport and I rented a car, a Kia Soul. After an uneventful ride home, I decided I’d bit the bullet and spend what I need to spend to get the front end and steering problems fixed, including the shocks. The final bill will be just north of $1500. If I had a way to force the Dallas area mechanic who inspected the truck for road-worthiness to pay the bill, I would. He’s the same mechanic who said the loose steering and drifting behavior of the truck was “just normal—it’s an old truck.” That’s what he told my friend and that’s what he told me when I inquired about it when I first took it to him. So the problem that (I hope) will be fixed has been around a long time.

Today, I’m going to sit back and do my normal Monday routine, including the Garland Library critique group. I’ll go back tomorrow to return the rental and get the truck. Here’s hoping the drive over and back and uneventful.

I am alive and uninjured. It could have ended up differently. A blow-out at 60 miles per hour in a construction zone with only one lane of traffic is no fun. A two-hour wait for assistance adds insult to injury. But I’m alive. I thought, for a few frightening moments, I would not be. And those were the saddest moments of my life to date.

Today’s experience still resonates with me. It bothers me in ways I don’t quite understand. My friend paid an ostensibly competent mechanic to examine the vehicle for safety issues. Blatant problems were identified as normal. I’m angry and grateful and filled with loathing at the moment. Forgiveness, huh? It’s the best policy.

There’s nothing to be done. You are at the mercy of the universe. That may seem overwhelming, but it’s not. Not when you consider that you are the universe. You are decency and compassion. You are understanding and appreciation. You are the fibers that bind us together. You and I. We are the matter that makes it all worthwhile. Shortly, I will wander to a little airport, board a little plane, take a little flight, and land in a big city. For a time, I will absorb the pleasures of big city life with friends. But then I will drive a little truck back home, back to the center of the universe. I will return to my wonderful wife and my normal life and will be grateful for the decency and compassion and extraordinary mercy I find here, at home. Some days—and here ‘some’ means ‘all’—are gifts from the universe. This is one such gift. And tomorrow is another. And on and on, ad infinitum, until we all merge with the stars.

Today is my wife’s birthday. Normally, we’d go out to dinner or I’d prepare a special dinner at home. She asked me for scallops. But then our neighbors invited us out to lunch, followed by a few hours touring Lake Balboa on their boat. Janine opted for the boat. It was a marvelous way to while away a few hours. It reminded me that I wish I had a boat. The next two nights won’t do for dinner, either. “Stuff” on the agenda. But maybe Saturday or Sunday I can make scallops with risotto and wilted spinach for her.

For dinner, we went to Sonic. We used a coupon that allowed one free cheeseburger with one paid. See, I was a sucker for the kid in the Walmart parking lot, who was selling coupon cards for $5 to find his baseball team’s trip. I bought one. Tonight’s freebie hamburger recouped $4.19. Another trip to Sonic and I’ll be miles ahead. Would that my investments had such returns.

I’m trying to be “up” tonight but failing miserably for some reason. I will plug away.

I read an obituary this morning. A fifteen-year-old girl in Bedford, Texas committed suicide by hanging herself. Bullying took its toll on her.  Whoever wrote the obituary put the blame squarely on the bully(ies); I hope those responsible read it. They will have to live with what they did. Unless they can no longer live with who they are.

Another morning, just like so many mornings past. This early part of the day is a homonym for bereavement. A drab sky, muted green leaves, the muddy brown bark of trees sliding into black where the dim light of morning can’t reach the surface. Somewhere above me, the sun is hiding, shielded by smoke or clouds or haze so thick its light must bend and perform unenthusiastic acrobatics to make it way past obstacles in the air. I’m trying to make the best of the depressing vision outside my window, but my brain is as foggy as the day is funereal and my fingers protest efforts to make them dance on the keyboard. An image of my mournful countenance accompanies the word “lugubrious” in the unabridged version of the Oxford English Dictionary. Pines and oaks outside my window seems hopeless in the knowledge that they, too, will decay and fall to the ground one day unnoticed, mourned by nothing and no one. Mourning somehow doesn’t suit the natural cycle of life and death. Mourning denies the ebb and flow of life on the planet, as if death is a mistake to be lamented, a grievous error about which we can do nothing but fret. I doubt ants mourn the loss of individual workers who perish under the feet of joggers or demonic children who kill just because they can. They probably don’t even grieve over the loss of an entire colony; they have more pressing things to do than rue the invention of soles to protect the soulless or wish children had never been born. We could be like ants if we were sufficiently single-minded, wherein nothing matters but accomplishing the one goal we have set for ourselves, or which has been set for us. How many ants must there be outside in the half-acre surrounding the spot where I sit? I’d bet the numbers must run into the hundreds of thousands. Every one of them will die one day, maybe soon, but none mourned. It’s not just “that’s life,” it’s simply “that’s reality.” Reality is what me make it, though, isn’t it? Reality is simply the way our brain processes events and experiences. In that sense, someone who’s taken LSD is experiencing a reality that’s very different from mine, but it’s a reality nonetheless. I might like to know what that reality is like; I might like to see trees morph into colorful insects and watch them swallow bits of the sky. I wrote yesterday, during the height of a seemingly non-ending string of NOAA weather radio alerts that I expected the alerts to one day warn that fragments of the moon will soon rip through the atmosphere and smash to earth. Subsequent to that, I’ll hear warnings about monstrous tsunamis caused by lunar debris and then dire warnings about enormous eruptions of magma from the earth’s core, thanks to broken pieces of the moon puncturing earth’s crust. Imagine experiencing a reality in which such events were not simply creations of one’s imagination but, instead, terrors felt in the core of one’s being. Imagine believing such things were actually happening. I gather the realities of LSD succeed in melding dreams or creative interpretations of experience with belief. So the colorful insects actually are eating piece of the sky, right before one’s eyes. Looking outside my window now, I am a bit wistful for those vibrant colors. If insects are eating the sky in my line of vision, they are dull grey beasts, invisible in their dreary camouflage.

Last night’s HSV Open Mic Night had the largest attendance, by far, of any held to date: 152 people in the audience. Last night’s performances were eclectic. Banjo, acoustic guitar, piano, electric guitar, viola, violin, conga, bongos, trombone, spoken word poetry, harmonica. The music mix was just as diverse: country, folk, classical, hard rock. And the people, both audience and performers, ran the gamut from very young to very old, rock “groupie” to folk aficionado, country fan to student of classical, conservative to progressive (I discerned political bent from my biased perspective and not through overt observation). I was pleased with the event, though I can’t really take responsibility for it. The performers, after all, were self-selected volunteers with the exception of the feature performer (an incredibly talented guitarist who brought a singer/conga player to accompany him) and a string trio, who I invited. But I take some pride in it, regardless, because I got the word out and encouraged involvement.

As I think of the characters on stage last night, it occurs to me that I could use them (or my interpretation of them) in my writing. I could (and probably will) craft histories surrounding them: their backgrounds, their motivations for their music or other expression, their attitudes and ideas about life. For example, the duo of two aging artists who rocked the house by playing White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane give me fodder for a story in which country roots and southern racist culture clash with 1960s and 1970s progressive and left-wing rebellion, creating an odd mix of  chauvinism and tolerance. Mind you, I have no idea whether the story would have even a kernel of truth or parallel with the players; it’s my mind taking a close-up snapshot of a flower and using the photo as a model from which to paint a landscape of a mountain range.

Listening to some of the musicians’ self-deprecating comments, warning the audience not to expect much, was at once endearing and heart-breaking. Every person on stage last night had more musical or lyrical talent on display in a few minutes than I could display in a lifetime, yet many of them felt compelled to call attention to what they saw as their inadequacies. That’s painful to watch. That, in and of itself, is the stuff of literature, literature that mines the complexities of the human psyche.

I got off track, didn’t I? I intended to touch on some of the characters I might create from last night’s performers. All right, back to the track. The talented middle school student who sang and played piano and guitar could serve as a model of a young woman who is nurturing a dream of stardom. As the story unfolds in my head, I see her exhibit a single-minded focus that’s rare in someone so young; she wants not only to develop her talent to the fullest, she wants to share it on the world’s stage. But as she matures—physically, emotionally, and musically—she becomes skeptical of fame and stardom. Instead, she finds fulfillment in using her talents to call attention to the plight of the less fortunate, becoming, for lack of a better comparison, the Joan Baez for her age. The altruism that drives her, though, conflicts with the almost unavoidable financial riches her talents deliver to her. Her torment resolves when she comes to grip with one painful truth: the world is not a fair place, but only by pursuing the impossible dream of fairness does it become tolerable.

Following a theme similar to the one that emerged from my thoughts about the young musician, I consider the people behind the intersection between jazz and poetry. The musician, a man whose life has taken him from poverty to riches and back again many times over, struggles to define which experience had the greatest impact on defining who he is at his core. Whenever he find himself at a crossroads, emotionally, in that search for self, he returns to music. The poet, a retired senior-level government diplomat, yearns to forget a lifetime that, in retrospect, has been an empty vessel into which is poured and emptied repeatedly an elixir designed for political gain. She seeks meaning outside her career, which she now sees as hollow and meaningless. Through their unique mix of music and message, the musician and the poet feed one another the energy they need to explore what’s missing from their lives. Neither realizes the power of symbiosis until they achieve, separately, what they could accomplish only by sharing music and message together.

The members of the string trio are sisters who pursue classical music in homage to their father, a brilliant composer who died in a hotel fire in Luxembourg when they were young children. His death devastates their mother. In an effort to keep his memory and his music alive, she insisted that the three sisters learn to play stringed instruments which formed the core of their father’s classical compositions. For years, she had them practice—day after day after day—an unfinished symphony her husband was writing at the time of his death. Her aim, though neither she nor the children knew it at the time, was for the unfinished piece to be completed. She believed, unconsciously, that at some point her daughters would continue playing beyond the notes written by her husband, filling in the emptiness he left with his unfinished piece. At the mother’s insistence, the three sisters—by now adults with children of their own—play a concert of his music. The last piece they play is their fathers’ unfinished piece. But when they reach the last note he wrote, they continue playing until the piece their father was writing comes to a thunderous conclusion, prompting the audience to rise in applause and the mother to finally achieve a moment of peace before her death, just seconds after they play the final.

The rest of the performers could just as easily stoke the fires of creativity, as could every member of the audience. I could make up stories for every one of them. But would I finish the stories? Only the rest of time will tell.

I bounce from project to project, finishing the occasional endeavor if it’s especially short and requires little patience. It occurs to me that, if I were able to transfer the energy expended in one hundred unfinished projects into just a few important ones, I might well be living in a spectacularly well-appointed home with a lovely, productive garden. I might have a superb workshop, drive a gleaming car, and have a dozen novels under my belt. I just can’t seem to sit still long enough to get anything of consequence done. I lose interest. No, that’s not it; I don’t lose interest, I lose drive. I still have the interest, but I lose the initiative, the purpose, the…DRIVE. That’s it. I want to finish, but not badly enough to invest the effort. When I start, I’m gung-ho. And then something else attracts my attention and my energy. It’s simply a lack of discipline. That’s what it is.

I wonder how I managed to keep my clients happy. I wonder how I managed to stay employed. Have I always been this distracted? I suppose so. But until several years ago, I managed to force myself to plug along. I think that—forcing myself to plug along—may have been what drove me absolutely over the edge and made me decide to shut down the business, sell the assets, and “take a sabbatical.” I actually did intend to return to earning a living. But even that idea and the dozens of possibilities I explored got old and unattractive in short order. I’ve said I want to start a business of one kind or another, but I don’t want to run it once it’s up and operating. The operations and management aspect of business is boring in the extreme; it’s the launch and the scramble to make a go of it in the early stages that’s appealing. Beyond that, it’s dull. And dulling.

One of my less ambitious projects, HSV Open Mic Night, has become another distraction in need of offloading. When I began, I was enthusiastic. I still enjoy it. But I have absolutely no interest in continuing to orchestrate it every few months. It’s not like it requires exceptional efforts; it doesn’t. But I have grown tired of the novelty, I guess. I’m looking for someone else to take it over. Maybe that’s the same tactic I should use with my writing (and my house projects and my painting and my gardening, etc., etc.): look for someone to finish what I began. Hmm, here’s something to consider: I write far enough into a story to begin to develop an interesting plot and some intriguing characters; then, someone else takes over, supplementing my draft and working it over until a complete story emerges.  Meh. No, I don’t think that would go anywhere. It’s not unlike the idea of tearing off part of my deck and then offering others the opportunity to finish it because “it will be fun!” But maybe I can wiggle my way out of Open Mic Night that way; someone is bound to find it interesting. It is. It’s just no longer particularly interesting to me.

The idea of losing interest in projects, activities, endeavors, etc., etc. doesn’t seem so sinister until one considers other aspects of one’s life. Losing interest in one’s spouse, children, friends, et al to the extend that one might consider abandoning them would be viewed as evidence of lapses in morality or worse. At what point do commitments between people and projects and activities, and the loss thereof, blur toward indistinctness? Does the inability to maintain full commitment to endeavors that once meant a great deal offer clues to one’s moral fiber? Does the capacity to lose interest in something once so important suggest the same thing might happen with family and friends? These are scary thoughts, though I realize I may be over thinking the relationship between what could be symptoms of AADHD and one’s core decency as a human being.

Looking back at the preceding paragraphs, I must say I take great pride. Pride in my ability to finish several paragraphs that include complex sentences. Sentences that contain ideas that relate to one another, though in some cases only tangentially. But is this post really finished? Maybe not, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s done. My focus now moves on to a fresh cup of coffee and pumpernickel toast.

Imagine yourself out for a run, or a walk, through the forest. A mile away from the nearest house, you spot a raccoon in the trail in front of you. Though it’s an unusual sighting in broad daylight, more unusual is the animal’s response when it sees you. It bares its teeth and charges at you. Brambles and vines and rocky bumps in the path ahead and behind make it impossible for you to outrun it. It leaps toward you and, as you attempt to push it away as it lunges, it clamps its teeth on your thumb. You scream and try your best to pull the animal’s jaws apart, but your strength does not match that of the clawing animal. As you wrestle with the biting, clawing, scratching beast, you notice a puddle of water at your feet. In a desperate effort to make this nightmare end, you thrust the beast under the water and push with all your might. You hold the animal under for what seems an eternity. Finally, its legs go limp and its grip on your thumb loosens. You’re able to release yourself from its clutches. Almost paralyzed with fear, you run back down the trail from which you came and reach your house. Some of your housemates call 911 for help, while others take to the trail to find your attacker. They find the drowned raccoon, bag it, and  take it to the authorities, who determine it was rabid. You must now get a series of injections to save your life; without them, you will surely die. But the nightmare is nearly over, but not completely. You will live to tell the tale. The authorities caution you, and everyone nearby: when there’s one rabid raccoon, there will be more. Beware the forest trail.

[This may sound like something I’d make up, but it’s actually pretty faithful to a story I read about yesterday in an online newspaper in Maine. Today, the internet is alight with stories recounting the horrible encounter.]

We tie ourselves in knots made of sinew and sweat, stress and seclusion, sincerity and suspicion. Nothing is its own thing anymore; everything belongs to something or someone else. Community, insatiable in its allure, topples the towers of individualism, releasing the utopia that togetherness promises to bring. Together, we promise to think and act and wish for the greater good, the genuine sublimity of ego erasure. Egos were meant to be fed a steady diet of hunger; fed, not starved. The starved ego recoils at communalism, for it represents famine; the hungry ego clings to community, for it offers opportunities to partake of readily shared sustenance. Individualism is self-responsibility taken a step too far, a step beyond non-reliance into selfishness and penurious thrift. Where, then, is the proper balance? Where does the individual end and society begin? Every answer is a truthful lie, hidden inextricably inside a kernel of truth sheathed in a web of deceit and ignorance.

A river of light sits just beyond the dark edges of the unseen horizon, poised to burst into morning. Before long, I expect light to flood through the windows. That river of light, spilling from the sky, will flush darkness downstream. But then, as dawn matures into mid-morning, the darkness will crawl back, bringing with it air so thick with tears of the gods that the sky may cry like a wounded water-bucket, its galvanized bottom riddled with holes inflicted by an angry child armed with an ice pick. Clouds, acting like demonic prisms, will amplify the sun’s heat in a conspiracy designed to turn good cheer into beads of sweat and angry curses. The cool breezes of bygone days have left for more charitable climates, leaving us to bake and broil like food for discerning vultures. Those gentle breezes that soothed our skins and our souls may one day return. When the pumpkin shivers, we will know the time has come. We can only hope the pumpkin will, indeed, shiver again.