It's always fun to find things you did a while ago...
I think I was trying to make some sort of profound statement or something... this is overthought. Anyway.
Duty Calls (And Gets My Voicemail)
There are only so many chances in a lifetime to prove your worth. Failure or success when faced with these opportunities defines who you truly are. The sum failure or success of the answer to this call often defines a generation.
For my Grandfather's generation, the opportunity came with World War II. His peers stood up, and with a clear goal, prevailed, defining itself as perhaps the greatest generation.
For my father's peers, the goal was not so clear. As a result, Vietnam may have ultimately defined how history will remember his generation.
One might argue that for my generation the opportunities are obvious. The war in Iraq and the war on terror are constantly defining who were are and what we believe in. But I have no real role in that outcome. Besides longer lines at airports, none of it really effects a person like myself. We spend our days behind desks, hoping to avoid any call to define our generation (of for that matter, any call at all). But there comes a time in almost every one's life when he or she has to step up and define themself. The question for me was not so much "Will my call come?", but instead, "How will I answer it?"
Last night I think I got a small taste of that answer. My call to duty came suddenly and unexpectedly at the intersection of State Road 135 and Stonegate, in the lounge of my favorite Starbucks.
There I was, tall white chocolate mocha in hand, about to make my way out to my car when I was met by three women who appeared to be about my age.
"Do you know how to change a tire?"
If I had realized the grand scale of what I was being asked, I may have taken a minute to ponder my answer. But much like those who immediately signed up with the army on September 12th, I jumped into action.
"Yes."
"Can you look at our car?"
"Sure."
What I should have done was pointed to my girlfriend Gina, who was with me, and said "She normally does stuff like this." But I didn't.
So we stepped outside, over some mounds of plowed snow, and over to a newer Pontiac Grand Prix. Here was my Everest, my WWII, parked in the Starbucks parking lot and sporting a badly broken front driver's side wheel.
"Ooh. That's going to be expensive" I said.
The girl didn't seem to mind. "Can we just put the spare on so I can drive it down to the Goodyear place?"
I said sure and began digging through her trunk for the spare. I pulled it out with little effort, and removed the jack. Working my way around to the front of the car, I asked her if she had her manual so I could find out the proper location for the mount of the jack.
As I flipped through the pages of the manual, little did I know that my battle was going to be more of a Vietnam than a WWII. But even calling it Vietnam is probably generous. The manual said something about putting the jack into the notch, and had an illustration of the bottom of the car with the words "18 inches" written below. While I secretly wondered I was supposed to do with those 18 inches (insert joke), I began to clear the packed snow away from the undercarriage. I loosened the lugs nuts on the wheel, felt around for some sort of clear indication of where the jack belonged, and then made a completely wild guess that the first undercarriage notch I found was my target.
After what seemed like hours, I had unpacked the jack enough to establish a firm fit between the snow covered parking lot and the snow covered undercarriage. I began winding the jack more enthusiastically now, knowing that I was getting closer to my goal. But after getting the jack about halfway up, I noticed that it didn't seem to be sitting straight.
I suppose it was at this point that I gave up on trying to keep my beltless pants up. In conversation later, Gina noted the I was hanging out the back of my pants, and I explained that I was so frustrated that I had given up on caring.
I now had a decision to make: either continue to jack the car up with a crooked jack (knowing full well that it could cause the car to fall), or lower the jack and start all over. After kicking the idea around in my head a bit, I decided to start over.
The jack wasn't having it. As I started to lower the car, I first heard a sort of crunch sound, which didn't really worry me (plastic cars make odd sounds sometimes). But then I noticed that the jack was getting more and more crooked. Slightly worried that something terrible had happened, I turned the lever faster and faster.
I guess really it didn't take long to realize I had bent and completely destroyed the jack. I should have know when it pushed sideways into the tire.
I said "So... do you want the bad news or the bad news?"
I'm sure that the girls already knew they had picked an idiot when my ass started creeping out of my pants. Now they had confirmation.
"Oh, that's all right. We'll just call somebody." They then offered me ten dollars, which I refused.
As I put my tail between my legs and walked back to the car, I started to drink my now cold mocha. I recalled a conversation with Gina earlier in the week when she had asked me "Who doesn't know how to change a tire?". Then I blamed it all on my girlfriend, much like those brave soldiers who gave their lives at Pearl Harbor.
"You cursed me!"
"No I didn't."
"Whatever"
So there we have it. My call to duty felled by faulty equipment, or bad planning, or an evil woman out to destroy me. All in all, I guess it can't be my fault. But that didn't stop me from feeling cold and embarrassed, a lot like my overexposed ass in the Starbucks parking lot.
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