Books and Easter Disasters

I have a deep and abiding love for literature, for complex stories and their application to the way we live and process our experiences. Unfortunately, I tend to get hung up on overly elaborate details and descriptions often found in the typical novel and miss the broader points.

Cody has introduced me to Japanese literature and continually shows me new authors to read. His latest discovery is a woman who goes by the pen name Banana Yoshimoto. I just finished a novella from her called Kitchen and it was glorious.

The book reminded me of nothing so much as mental sorbet - her tone is light, relaxed, and flowing. It's a fast, 107 page read, but completely worth the half hour or so I spent. The story is about two people whose lives are both touched by quiet tragedy, how they come to terms with it, and how they find solace in one another. It's beautifully simple - no epic, grandiose quest, no end of the world or imminent social change. There's a quiet reflection she conveys that just drained away the stress I've been feeling and made me appreciate the little things we do for other people that mean more than some of the big ones. It was a refreshing change of pace.

Of course, as is wont to occur, this peaceful reflection was then destroyed on my way back to Pocatello on Easter. It's normally a quick, forty-five minute drive. Not a particularly appealing stretch of desert, but with music it's bearable. After approximately half an hour on the highway, I felt something strange happen in the rear of the car and it started handling oddly. I realized a tire had blown and pulled off to the side of the road. The car behind me had seen it happen, and the friendly occupants came out to see if they could help. I popped the back, grabbed the spare tire, went for the jack in the handy side compartment, but - oh, what was this? No jack in the little slot?

How odd, I thought, as I'm not functionally inept and do in fact know how to change a tire. The jack should be here. I have the lever to crank it up . . . Luckily the gentleman driving the other car had one and he zipped off to his car to grab it. We jacked the car up, removed the lug nuts, and discovered to our dismay that the tire was rusted to the bolts. Neither one of us had a hammer. We kicked the wheel, shook the car, drove the car on the wheel, all to no avail. I called the illustrious father and convinced him to bring both a hammer and an actual tire so I wouldn't have to use the spare. The kindly gentleman apologized for not actually being able to help, took his jack, and left.

I then called my less-than-illustrious older brother, as the car was previously his, to discern the location of the jack. His response of "Uh, I dunno, I guess I took it out," was less than helpful. I started rooting around under the seats and, lo and behold, found the jack. The bent jack. Figuring it was better than nothing, I stuck it back under the car and jacked it up - which was really stupid, as the jack bent more. Two more helpful cars stopped, but they were also unable to remove the cursed tire.

At this point it was getting dark, so I threw the components back in the car and started to tromp around the side opposite the freeway to sit inside my useless vehicle. Enter the flashing lights of a police officer. He stepped out of his car and came over to make sure I wasn't some sort of hook-handed hitchhiker about to murder the occupant of the stranded Subaru, then informed me he didn't feel right leaving me alone to wait for my father and would stay in his car so nothing happened. It was a kind gesture, but he also left the flashing lights on so it appeared as though I was getting the world's longest DUI. Half an hour later the previously mentioned father appeared, bearing both wheel and hammer. A few quick taps removed the bastard tire, which he took as I went for the replacement.

"Kirstin, I've never seen this tire before."

"What?" I turned around to see him raising an eyebrow at the sadly deflated hunk of rubber.

"This is not one of our tires. And where's your hubcap?"

Said hubcap has been missing for weeks. I assumed it had fallen off, as the car is from 1996 and is, well, awful. Apparently not so. Some delightful inhabitant of Pocatello stole just one of my tires and thoughtfully replaced it. Can you see, dear reader, why I hate this place?

We put the replacement tire on and discovered it was rather lacking in air pressure. And was studded. I then got to drive 35 mph down the road to the next exit for a gas station with my hazard lights flashing and the studs making the whole car vibrate.

After this ridiculous venture I threw myself into my apartment (I may have been throwing a mental hissy fit. Don't look at me that way, you'd do it too.), poured a glass of rum, and downed it. And then remembered I hadn't eaten anything in a good six hours.

It was a long night.

- SqueezeBox

(forthcoming post that will actually appear in a timely manner: Kafka on the Shore and potentially an accordion video of a sea chantey)