Monday, Revised

Monday

         “Holy Father, thanks for today, my job and my daughter. Please let the van keep running. I cannot afford to replace anything else for a few months. Amen.”

         This is my daily prayer. Prayers are the last thoughts before my mind is covered in the fog of sleep and again after the screaming of the alarm when I desperately need an excuse to keep my eyes shut. It would be irreverent to pray with my eyes open.

         Last Monday, I prayed, got out of bed, showered and left for work thirty minutes
early. Had I left at my usual time, I would have had a normal day.

         Backing out of the driveway to begin the hour long trek to work, my brakes seemed
different.

         “Please don’t let it mean anything.”

         Outside of town, two truck stops are directly across from each other. Traffic flows
smoothly in and out of the older truck stop.

         The new truck stop has been a nuisance since day one. Every morning, some truck is waiting at the bottom of the hill to pull out till it is too late for me to stop. Every evening some driver pulls out thinking he can make it to the overpass before I become part of his trailer. Every morning just as I top the overpass, some semi decides he can make it into the opposite lane before I get to the bottom of the hill. I used to lay on the horn and cuss. Now I stomp on the brake and hold hard on the
steering-wheel. This could be the reason I am a member of the tire of the month club.

         Monday, I was early. At the peak of the overpass, the requisite truck was in position.

         “Please don’t pull out.”

         I should have prayed to someone other than the truck driver because he sucks at answering prayers.

         I stomped on my brakes. The pedal went to the floor and never came back up. The trailer in front of me, I knew any vehicle in the other lane had to be stopping or hitting the cab from the other side. The entrance to the older truck stop was directly in front of the truck. Gas pumps are just inside the entrance; a building is ten yards from them.

          I cranked my steering wheel left, rocketing around the nose of the truck. I can still recall the horrified looks of the truck driver and the woman pumping gas. I streaked past her safely on the opposite side, into the area where the trucks park. Veering around the building and back out the same entrance I entered, I was turned around and headed home.

         I recanted my last fifteen minutes to my roommate, who put on her shoes and went out
to investigate.

         “We’ll have brakes in a few minutes. It helps if you put fluid in sometimes.”

         She is the mechanic; she can fix anything. Duck tape and super glue are usually involved, so I was a bit skeptical.

         “Go across the street and buy some brake fluid.”

         It seemed to me to be a large problem, so I paid seven dollars and purchased the large
bottle. Logically, brake lines are long and need lots of fluid to fill them.

         She filled the reservoir and pumped the brakes. We heard a clicking sound.

         “That can’t be good.”

         The sound changed to a squeak and something possessed us to believe that meant the
fluid was going where it needed to be. She drove around the block.

         “You better call and tell David you won’t be in today.”

         “You are so kidding! We can’t loose a whole day’s wages! We can’t afford brakes
and a day off in the same day!”

         “Don’t drive faster than twenty-five, pray that nobody gets in front of you, and start
stopping about fifty yards before you need to be stopped.”

         I called work and explained. We spent the next thirty minutes calling everybody we
could think of that could help. Finally the best plan we could come up with was to drive
to another town thirty minutes away and discuss the situation with another female friend.

         My brilliant roommate said, “Maybe Mork can fix them for us.”

         “Mark is fifteen!”

         The son of this friend we were going to see, Mark works on cars with his dad, but the
fact that they call him ‘Mork” disturbs me. I keep thinking about that guy from Ork and I
didn’t really want either of them working on my brakes.

         Mark suggested a couple garages. They were closed.

         “Is Monday a holiday we don’t know about?”

         She shrugged. “Maybe everybody but us has the sense to stay in bed on Monday.”

         “Apparently.”

         We ended up at Squawkbox’s house. He is annoying and has a speaking device
surgically implanted in his throat that needs a microphone held up to it for him to speak.
He sounds like a robot and when he smokes, the smoke comes out the speaking device.
This man is after any woman that will have him and he knows she is out there somewhere.

         This is the only person we could find in three towns to bleed our brakes. We just had
to put up with being hit on.

         “I haven’t been with a woman in five years, but I am still looking.”

         I really hoped that wasn’t a hint.

         “I had surgery six weeks ago. My bladder works fine now, but I have to use this God-damned cane cause I haven’t been worth a damn since that day.”

         Back on the road, I called work and told them I could be there by two.

         I must have forgotten to pray and say “thank you.” At home, I got back into my work clothes and headed for the driveway only to find one of my two week old tires was flat.

         I walked across the street, where I had purchased the tires. He had three vehicles in
the bays and two were waiting, but he could get to me soon.

         It takes an hour to get to work and I should have left thirty minutes earlier.

         I could see the tire shop from the front door. Like an excited puppy, I kept bounding up to the door to check the progress. It would have helped if I had left them the key, but then I couldn’t have watched them work on it from the porch.

         I saw the tire come out of the shop; I was out the door.

         Right at the precise place I had to slam on my brakes eight hours earlier, a semi sat
jack-knifed; taking up both lanes. The only way around it was in the ditch. At this point,
I was starting to think God really didn’t want me to go to work.

         “Is there some reason I am not supposed to be either on the road or at work?” I Shrieked; pounding on the steering wheel.

         Four cars in front of me in turned around and went back the way they came.

         “OH! NO! That is not happening! I am going to work!”

         Officer Friendly walked up to my window, “where are you headed today ma’m?”

         “Hastings.”

         “I can have you on the interstate as soon as the cars going around the truck get back
on this side of the road.”

         The interstate is a full twenty minutes out of my way.

         “That would be great!”

         I had never seen so many cars on the interstate. My road rage was enough to get me
a life sentence for terroristic threats.

         Nothing went right at work. I had to call security to let me in because I didn’t have
my key. The manicotti could not be found. The Fettuccini noodles boiled over, then stuck together. I turned on the fryer right away so it could be heating while I set up the salad bar, desserts and condiment bar, but when I dropped the hot wings into the oil, nothing happened. The oil level was too low for the light to come on showing the sensor was heating. I poured three gallons of cooking oil on the floor between the two fryers.

         At five, I opened the doors and customers flowed inside, never suspecting all the challenges I had to overcome to feed them.

         Before the shift was over, I would dump a canister of tea on the serving area floor, drop a pop nozzle on the floor and step on it
crushing it. I dropped a ceramic crock of ketchup onto the floor and melted a plastic
bread bag to the front of the oven.

         Arriving home, I thanked God for getting me there safely, showered and went to bed.

         Sometimes all you can do with a Monday is get it over with.

         As I write this, my roommate has taken the van to the lake. The phone rings.

         “Hello?”

          “Guess what?”

          “We won the lottery?”

          “Funny. I have no brakes.”

          “Has anybody seen the calendar?”