Hot off the heels of my post about how I never like to leave the house:
I want to write a fancy post, but I just don’t have the energy for it. Instead I’ll just give you some of the interesting bits, and you can add your own adjectives and suspense and theme and drama and…. stuffs.
As John and I were on our way to the dojo we got a flat tire. We tried to limp it to the gas station to get some fix-a-flat, we ended up getting a shredded tire in addition to the flat. For reals, how does that even happen? We tired to swap out the shredded tire with the spare, but the lug wrench that came with the car doesn’t fit the actual lugs on the car. (I think this is a conspiracy, as I’ve had this happen on other cars I’ve owned.) We call our friend up to come pick us up, and he takes us to the auto parts store where we get a nice wrench (with four different sizes!). We head back, switch out the tires, spray some fix-a-flat into the flat, and then we are on our way to the gas station by our house to put some air in the low tire.
At this point I’ve missed both the aikido and iaido classes.
We get to the gas station and pull up to get air. As we’re making sure the hose will reach all four tires, a bunch of big trucks pull up and park all over the area we’re at, blocking the parking lot. I think, “What jerks!” I start to head into the gas station to throw my empty fix-a-flat can into the bin when one of the guys in the truck starts shouting at me and gesturing, but I can’t hear him: his window is all rolled up. As I keep walking he keeps going wild in his truck, and I’m thinking, “Okay seriously dude: what’s the problem?” So I walk over to him and motion for him to roll his window down and I’m like, “I can’t hear you, what the fuck do you want?” (Sorry kids, I do happen to have a potty mouth on me, and at this point of the adventure I was so pissed off and tired, I didn’t keep my cool.)
I seriously thought the guy was some sort of creeper, so I was all kinds of belligerent, and then he says in a loud whisper, “I”m police. DO NOT GO IN THAT STORE.”
And I’m like, “Not even to throw some trash away?” Because, apparently I wasn’t thinking straight.
“DO NOT GO IN THAT STORE. GET BACK! GET BACK!”
Finally something clicked, and I was like, “Fuck, fine. Whatever,” (in the tone of “YOU’RE NOT MY DAD YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!”). I walked back to our car and told my husband and friend, “They’re police they said not to go into the store.”
The two guys just look at me, and then one (I can’t remember who) asks if I saw their badges, and I was like, “No, what-”
And then more trucks come out of nowhere, the guy I had talked to peels out in his truck, and then they all circle around the building, and two of them smash into a motorcycle right by the pumps. The guy on the motorcycle sprints from his downed bike to the other side of the building, and the cops with big ass rifle/machine guns/laser rays and flack jackets are everywhere yelling, “HE’S GOT A GUN, GET DOWN!” So we all hit the asphalt, (although I crouch because, honestly: parking lots are filthy and I still can’t believe this is happening.)
I’m crouching right behind the tire that started all this, thinking about how if a bullet comes through, I hope the damn tire does a better job as a shield than it did as a means of transportation.
After a few moments of silence, I start popping my head up to see what’s going on. Most of the action took place on the other side of the building, and I can see cops standing around talking on radios, so I just assume that everything’s okay now. I tell the guys, but they’re smarter than me and don’t move. After a while they get tired of watching me watch the cops, so they pop up too.
While everyone is milling around, the guys quickly put air in the tires, evening out the tire pressure on everything, and one of the cops comes over to tell us it’s all okay to leave. I tell him I’m sorry I sassed the other cop, and he waves it off and says not to worry about it – they get it a lot because they’re dressed the way they are. I look at the rifle that’s hanging down his chest, and the thick flack jacket, and I’m thinking, “You get harassed because you dress like that? I see a man with a rifle and a flack jacket, I turn and walk the other way… You don’t argue with a gun.”
And now I’m home and I may never leave it again.
Except for tomorrow, to take the car into the tire place and see if they’ll honor their warranty.
After that: staying home. Forever.