“Gremlins”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

A visitation of gremlins.

These invisible bugs seem able to nest anywhere, only to reveal themselves at inopportune moments with consequences that may be irritating or weighted with damnation. A curse in the air, like the stench of roadkill that fouls a summer evening. An obscene descriptive uttered without cause. A speck of dirt on nature’s grandest work of art.

I pondered the eerie force of these little devils while driving home from a visit with my friend Janis, over the holiday weekend. With the sun reduced to an orange orb at treetop level, I had relaxed into my seat in the F-150. Thoughts of a cold ‘Polar Pop’ on the way, at Circle K, made my mouth wet with anticipation. I had feasted first on a Memorial Day meal with family members in Hambden, then driven north to view a household reorganization with my colorful friend by Lake Erie.

We sat in her upstairs room with the air conditioner running at full tilt. Even after passing the mid-day peak, the outside temperature was still nearly 90 degrees.

Driving home, shortly afterward, I felt lazy. But able to pause on the empty road for a quick phone snap of the sunset. Then, I turned southwest, toward Geneva. The truck A/C was already on ‘max’ and I reached for the headlights. The blue sky would be gone in a few minutes. I wanted to be ready. Something made me realize that the dashboard seemed very dark. I switched off the lights and on again. But there was no difference. Everything remained black. Then, I saw that there was no reading on any of the gauges. At the city limits, my pulse began to quicken. Would I make it home? Or should I try?

The pickup sputtered a bit as I neared the center of town. I turned left into a bank parking lot, crossed to the boulevard behind, and back onto Main Street in the opposite direction, from where I had come. My heart thumped with purpose. There would be no getting home on my own terms. Instead, while the vehicle was still in motion, I decided to head for a repair shop on Myers Road.

It was my best hope for a safe resolution.

Still driving, I enlisted Siri from my iPhone. “Send a message to Janis!”

“What do you want to say?” she responded, dryly.

“I am in trouble. Just turned around in Geneva. Trying to make it back to the repair garage you use. The truck has some sort of electrical gremlins tonight. Damn those pesky critters!”

Her reply came quickly. “You need a ride home?”

I enlisted Siri again. “Send a message to Janis.”

“What do you want to say?” she answered.

“YES,” I barked. Remorse and frustration collided in my head. “Sorry, friend. I know this sucks.”

It had been past her bedtime when I left, a few minutes before. Her return to work would be early on Tuesday morning. Yet she was quick to help. “It’s okay. Let me grab my keys and I will meet you there...”

I counted each landmark on the way back. BB’s Corner Store, the railroad crossing, a boat still for sale in someone’s front yard. Finally, the auto repair depot appeared, on the left. My old hauler had made it all the way. I braked hard, nearly missing the turn. After pulling in next to their split-rail fence, I switched off my truck. Then twisted the key again.

As I suspected, there was a weak clicking of the starter relay but nothing else. My old horse was finished for the evening.

Janis arrived shortly afterward. I wondered about leaving a note for the mechanic, since no appointment had been made. She produced part of a pizza box from the debris on her back seat. I scribbled out a brief description of what had happened. Then left my key in the night drop.

“This definitely calls for a Polar Pop!” my friend cheered as I buckled the seat belt. Her car had no cooling on board. The compressor was long out of service. With windows rolled down, we again headed for Geneva. This time with a greater sense of certainty in effect.

And no gremlins.

At the Circle K on 534, I noticed a tall, weathered old fellow filling up his 1980’s Chevrolet Caprice. He had been a regular customer when I was still a manager for the local Giant Eagle supermarket. I caught his attention while my friend ran inside for beverages.

“How are you?” I asked, pondering his hobbled stride. He used a cane festooned with new-age graphics. I hoisted my own walking stick for comparison. “You see, I still have one of my own!”

The man was stooped by time and hard work. But he smiled broadly. “I have a joke for you, friend. A ‘Hee Haw’ joke. There was a fellow who heard about someone selling fresh milk from their farm. Unpasteurized. Something he wanted to try. When he met the proprietor, his curiosity could not be contained. ‘This is fresh milk you say. But I ask, how fresh is it?’ The farmer snorted with defiance. ‘How fresh, you ask? Why this morning, that milk was grass!’”

While I chuckled, he strode toward the store entrance, then turned in a half circle, danced a step and said “Hee Haw!”

Janis appeared with our beverages as the old man went inside. “Who was that crazy dude?”

“A customer from up the street,” I explained.

“He told you a joke?” she laughed.

“Yes he did,” I said.

She giggled while getting behind the wheel. “Sounds like a perfect ending to your day. One more thing you didn’t expect.”

I could only nod and agree.

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