Sunday, Are You Testing Me?

My next door neighbor has a man boarding with her during the week, one of the press of builders staying on the island for the winter. What is, I wonder, the official collective noun for construction workers? A brace of workers? A break of workers? In the case of my erstwhile men, a joint of workers?

At any rate, this particular worker (let us call him Spacey) is a very nice man. But as my neighbor put it "he is just plain irresponsible." She says this in the tone of a mother shaking her head over her adolescent son- and indeed, she has a son about Spacey's age... but that age is early-fifty-something. When she had said this I'd wondered how irresponsibility would manifest itself in this kindly middle-aged man.

I need to stop wondering things.

After a few weeks of leaving his truck in my driveway, Spacey and my neighbor separately got around to asking if was okay for Spacey to do so. I told them it was fine, but that he needed to be out of the way when there was plowing or fuel deliveries- because the fuel hose can't reach my house unless my driveway is plowed and free of other vehicles. That said, all was fine and there was neighborliness all around- Spacey happened to be heading out last week when I needed to haul things to the library (on my sled in the bitching cold), and gave me a ride. Rockwell could've painted a picture.

Today is a day of heavy snow. It started before I was even up, but I was sure to get up early, knowing that I would have to move Spacey's truck. He had blithely left it at the base of my driveway when he departed for the weekend. Cranky that he hadn't thought to move it and that I hadn't thought to stipulate that he needed to pull it up out of the way, I got dressed and headed out to move the thing myself. If I could get it further up the driveway it would leave enough room to plow and for the fuel truck to get in (the hose is about fifteen feet short). Spacey could shovel out his damned truck when he got back.

In my heart of hearts, I knew it couldn't be this easy. It is, after all, the island- a place where vehicles are put out to pasture. A magical realm that requires no inspection or registration. All it requires is that a vehicle run... most of the time. Funny thing about "most of the time:" it is measured on a yearly average. So in the summer, for example, my vehicle (an '80 something VW Golf, with minimal brakes and equally flimsy rear window) starts nearly 100% of the time, but when the temps dip to 37 degrees or so, it starts not at all. And I stop trying to start it. So, statistically speaking, while it is a vehicle that runs most of the time, it currently starts none of the time.

Spacey's truck is of a similar age and temperament.

I brushed off the inch and a half of snow that had already accumulated, and opened the door- which only gave about six inches, then snapped right back. It was (of course) being held shut by an internal bungee cord system. I released said cord, and slipped into the driver's seat, hooking the bungee back into place. I contemplated the shiny pedals. It had been a while- since the first hard freeze- but a standard is a standard is a standard. Using the steering wheel for purchase, I hitched my cold ass to the very edge of the seat so that I could fully push in the clutch and brake. I turned the key in the ignition. My heart sank, but was not surprised when it politely turned over a couple of times, failed to catch, and then sighed at me- "really darling, aren't we both a little old for this pretense?"

Oh, truck.

Ah, fuck...