The truck looked great in the showroom catalog, but the tires were balding and cracked. They would need replacing, but I didn’t plan on hitting a curb.
There was a day and a half last week when I made myself nuts, almost.
If no good deed goes unpunished, that’s where it all began. My friend on parish council, Amy, had been telling stories about her retirement job as a school crossing sentry. The students were cheerful, the teens had good wisecracks, the youngest told funny, innocent stories, but occasionally she encountered a distracted driver.
“So I’m standing in the intersection just after the children pass, and this vehicle almost hits me in the legs,’’ she recalled of the lady consumed with her cell phone. “I didn’t even have time to use my whistle. I don’t even know if that would have worked.’’
My “aha’’ moment struck. I would share one of my Fox40 referee whistles. These whistles are shrill enough to pierce a 30-mph wind from the other end of a lacrosse field. They always get the attention of the extra 10 referees on the sidelines.
So I stealthily left it on her windshield – I never stick around for thank yous – and went on my merry way, almost.
When my cell phone slipped beneath the seat, I finagled my wrist between seat and console to recover it. I had it, almost, but my front right tire clipped the curb.
“Bang! Whocka, whocka, whocka.’’
Faster than I could type the sound effects, the tire had gone flat from a torn sidewall. Part of the issue was that the four tires were worn and cracking and bald, almost.
My mechanic had urged me to buy new tires. I told him I was about to order, almost. I was just waiting for some coupons in the mail. I’m sure newer tires would have shrugged off the blow, but I’ll never know.
When the roadside assistance helper came, he couldn’t free the spare from the tray under the truck bed. It would require a tow, he said. So I waited another hour for the flatbed truck, then made small talk with the emotionless driver for the 15-minute ride. I got him to smile, almost, but the 15 minutes seemed like another hour, almost.
The lost three hours could have ruined my day, almost, but I reasoned they just put me behind. I would catch up tomorrow. Little did I know it would mimic a children’s book. Call it “Jimmy and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.’’
When the fellas gathered for our 6 a.m. basketball game, I jogged down the floor, found my favorite spot along the 3-point line, and drained the first shot of the day. This was going to be a good morning, almost. I finished 0-for-the-rest-of-the-morning and we lost both games. The wag on the sideline – he once dubbed me the “Geriatric Chucker’’ – remarked I was shooting about 8 percent. He was close to accurate, almost, but definitely not funny.
By coincidence, I had agreed to meet a retired teaching buddy for golf that morning. Sure, I was a little winded, but I figured I had enough stamina. My driver was accurate, I made the turn in 42, and pitched in on the 10th hole for birdie. This was going to be a good round, almost. The driver deserted me and I missed five of the last six fairways, scrambling to a mediocre 86.
That evening, the church supper program went swimmingly. I chauffeured my daughter, Katie, and we fed about 50 people. Our patrons appreciate the sense of community and are thankful, almost always, except for the one person with mental health challenges. She was starting nonsensical arguments again and riling guests. Once cleanup began, I thought we had escaped her, almost, until she spied us walking to our cars and cursed at us.
Regardless, Katie enjoyed working with the crew, showed photos of her infant niece, soaked up the camaraderie, and basked in the joy of volunteering. Katie’s roommate had just returned from a 5-day hiatus after contracting Covid so I thought I would test Katie too.
When she tipped over the first test kit, even though the bars were trending positive, I decided the results couldn’t be trusted. So I tested her again. I had faith this would turn out differently. I was certain, almost, but worried the kits were expired. So I tested her a third time. There was no denying the bars on this one. Positive.
That meant the next day I would be promoted from part-time driver back to full-time father and caregiver. Forget about the PGA Championship ticket and analyzing the swings of its star-studded field at Oak Hill. Forget about talking pitching sequences over breakfast with my traveling companion/umpire/baseball junkie friend Lauren. My golf league that afternoon would be a no-show too. I would settle for a Peter Pan movie and “Encore!” re-runs with Katie. I made chicken salad out of chicken … almost.
There was only one thing left to do; pick up my friends at the airport. When a deer wandered into the middle of a busy commercial road, I tromped on the brakes. I almost hit him.
My friends were due in at 10 p.m., almost. After a delay in Chicago, I learned they would arrive at 10:30, almost. Then came the delay at baggage claim. I figured I would be home by 11:30, almost, until I noticed the car was almost out of gas. I filled it up and pulled into the driveway. It was midnight, almost.
I reasoned that things could only get better in the morning. To quote Scarlett O’Hara, “After all, tomorrow is another day.’’ I checked my watch. Almost.
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
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