Doorknobs and Dipsticks

A couple nights ago I got up about 2 a.m. to go to the bathroom and I didn't want to wake myself or anyone else, so I left the lights off. I was getting up when- WHAM- my right eye got hit hard and I saw stars. I groped around wondering what I'd hit and grabbed the door which had drifted part way shut. I had just punched myself in the eye with a doorknob.

Later that day I had to explain to my chiropractor Ginger why I was in for an emergency visit with a terrible headache. I felt rather foolish. She said, "You hit yourself in the eyeball with a doorknob?!? How did you do that?" I explained, she winced and then we started laughing. Anjali, being the curious girl she is, asked Ginger if she'd ever had another patient hit their eyeball on a doorknob before and Ginger explained that I am the first one in her experience with that distinction. I told Ginger to be sure to tell all her chiropractor friends. Ginger then restored my head to peace in 15 minutes and asked if I had considered getting doorknob covers? I laughed and laughed and described various doorknob shield inventions. [When I later had to explain again about the doorknob thing to my acupuncturist, I told him how Ginger had laughed, and he said, "She laughed at you to your face? Why that's unprofessional. I always wait until the patient leaves!" To which I laughed again.]

After I left Ginger's headache free, I went home, changed into a fancy dress, and went to pick up my goddaughter Kate to drive her to her band concert. As I pulled out of the alley, I noted a strange thwacka-thwacka sound coming from my car, like a playing card hitting the spokes of a bike wheel, only louder. It got steadily worse after I picked Kate up and then the oil light began flashing on. I dropped Kate off and told her I'd be back in time for her concert and started driving the mile home. However, within the first block, my temperature gauge approached the 3/4 mark red zone and I quickly pulled into the gas station on the corner. I popped the hood and went to release the catch only to find the hood so hot I couldn't comfortably touch it. I went inside, found oil, paid by credit card and returned to the car. Got the hood open and tried gingerly to unscrew the oil cap without staining my dress or burning my hand. No go. Mustered my remaining dignity and went back inside and asked if someone with strong arm muscles could come and unscrew my oil cap, please. A nice Somali gentleman came out, got the cap off, and together we watched puffs of steam and black smoke rise from the hole. Not a good sign. He offered to pour the oil in and peered in remarking that he couldn't even see the oil yet. Go get another quart. I returned to the shelf and got back in line with another quart feeling a bit sheepish. My credit card wouldn't go. Only one gas station transaction per day. So I handed over my second credit card and oil in hand returned to the car. Pour, peer, no sign of the rising oil. Another quart? Yes. So for a third time, I returned to the shelf, got into line, and wondered aloud to the cashier if my second and final credit card also has the one swipe per day limit? Yes, it does. No more credit cards today. Ok, I have a checkbook. We don't take checks but you could ask the manager- he's the one under the hood of your car. Lovely. He doesn't take checks but will make an exception for me and here, hand me that quart of oil. I paid and returned to the car to find a second man with his head under the hood, a Latino gentleman. The two of them are clucking sadly with much shaking of heads about my sorry car. The Somali man told me that he treats his car like family. I felt like I just killed Gramma. Great. They pull out the dipstick to check the level and it's burned black and won't wipe off ensuring I have a permanent memento of this little adventure every time I check the oil which you can believe will be more often than the never I did before. They told me to get in, start the car, and pump the gas. Thwacka-thwacka. More head shaking and mournful clucking. I asked if I could drive the mile home. The Latino man told me, "You car broke. One mile home. No drive today. No drive tomorrow. No drive more no. Call tow. No drive. Is gone engine." And the Somali gentleman chimes in, "And no freeway. One mile, back roads only, straight home." Obviously leaving nothing to chance with a woman who could do this to her car. I thank them, shake hands, and begin the slow drive home. Oddly, within half a block, the thwacka-thwacka sound stopped and it's blessed silence and smooth shifting all the way. I get home, make confession to the Saturn service guy, and receive absolution, contingent on the oil staying in the tank and no more ominous sounds. He wished me well on my drive back to the concert. His calm assured me he must see worse, at least that's what I choose to tell myself instead of imagining him hanging up and calling out, "You won't believe what this Amy woman just did to her car!" while his friends guffaw. No, I imagine he's seen worse, much worse neglect and thoughtlessness and outright car stupidity than this. Surely he must have.

Surely. Right?