Detour to work, markets, and New Jersey

The trash people took away all of the debris I’d set out, which was considerable. I returned home to find the trashcans empty, with the ones in my driveway thrown across the entrance, in a fairly typical fashion. I’ve grown used to this; I simply stop across the street, run over to move the cans out of the way, and park the car in my driveway. I’m just grateful that much of the material from my demolition work is gone. The bathroom is still full of the stuff—the heavy pieces of wallboard in bits and pieces, as well as large sections—littering the small space. I’ll have to await a visit from the inspector from the Bureau of Municipal Waste. I hope it goes well.

Thursday I managed to sell most of what I brought to market. I told my young helper that it would be only the two of us working that day, and that I didn’t know how I would deal with the future markets. She was going back to school, and the other helper had just told me that she was taking a class that would interfere with her work on Thursdays.
“How are we going to get everything set up in time?” She stopped in her work to ask this.
I was fairly direct: “By moving fast and not asking a lot of questions,” I said. She seemed to get the point. The two of us managed ok, and I put the word out at the market that I needed help. Someone should be coming next Thursday.

Last Friday I made the drive up to Carroll County to check out the junk sale. There was the usual assortment of power tools, mowers, hand-tools, and so on. I didn’t bother to obtain a bidder’s number, but checked in at the last minute, just before leaving the place. The auctioneer was starting to sell things in the big shed, and could drum up no interest in a set of hubcaps for a Ford. I recognized the style and thought they would be good for my 1967 pickup. Although I have a set of original hubcaps for the truck, the wheels are currently bare—I don’t want to risk losing them as it sits around or is driven on work runs. These wheel covers—although not the exact year of my truck—would provide some protection from corrosion. The auctioneer was trying to get some interest, finally lowering the starting bid to fifty cents. I raised my hand and he yelled, “SOLD!” I explained that I didn’t have a number, but gave him my name and even ran the sheets of bidder’s numbers up to the office so that I could pay for my purchase without too much waiting. The shiny wheel covers fit perfectly, and actually look good to boot.

This, from a video job:

“Did you make-um tape for me?” The reporter asked this in her falsetto, little-girl voice that she’d been using during the entirety of the job. It made me want to puke. She spoke to the attorneys like this, she spoke to me this way, she even used the nauseating affectation on herself, during those times when she was talking to no one in particular.
“Oooohh, we don’t like-ums long extension cords! Marsha have to go faw away make um plug-ins!” The attorneys found her delightful.

Of course, I hadn’t made a backup audiotape for her. Many times the reporters on these jobs don’t want them. That wasn’t the reason I hadn’t made one, however; the reason was that I didn’t have any tapes, thought maybe I just wouldn’t address the matter, thought perhaps Marsha would go away with her little-girl voice and her high falsetto, would remember later to ask for a tape. But by that time I would be on the road, or maybe stopped at a Dairy Queen, asking the counter girl for a vanilla cone—the tape issue no longer a concern as I licked delicately at the soft ice cream. I told her I would make her one from the video, not knowing exactly how I would go about that. I knew that it was technically possible, but also knew that I was stymied by the most trivial of audio-visual connections, the many cables and power cords conspiring to make a tangled snake’s nest of frustration, ultimately ending with whatever offensive or uncooperative component I deemed responsible being smashed or kicked out the window.

When I got home I rummaged around in a half-hearted way, actually found the required connectors and cables, and got my little tape deck hooked up to the video deck. Everything worked, and I hadn’t exploded in rage, thrown anything around, or even gnashed my teeth a little bit. I let the video play, put the tape recorder on “RECORD,” and went out in the yard to cut away the many vines that were overtaking the place.

The cats looked on in interest, wondering no doubt why I was suddenly keen on tidying up the yard. For their purposes it had been just fine, affording ample places to secrete themselves amongst the vinery and tall weeds. I was going to have a caller on Sunday—a friend from the sixth grade who was the only person from long ago that I was still in contact with. He was now a priest, and had offered to come visit for a short time in the afternoon. We would do lunch.

On Sunday I finished up my market activities and prepared the house in a mad-dash of activity for my caller. Things that had been sitting around for a while simply went in the trash. I wouldn’t miss them. I vacuumed as well, spending a little time on the sofa, which had giant patches of fur where my large grey cat had chosen to sleep. Every time she lay down to nap, she left a good deal of herself behind. This fur didn’t come away so easily, so I know I’ll have to cover the sofa with an old blanket or covering to help prevent this problem in the future.

When my friend arrived, we went directly to lunch at the Mexican place I like over in Ellicott City. There was a new server there, and there was a little confusion about exactly what I was ordering. This was not helped in any way by the fact that I wasn’t so sure myself; I knew what I wanted, but couldn’t find it on the menu for some reason. Nevertheless, the food and drinks arrived without incident, and we shared a good meal together. I had some questions about the church, which I was considering getting reacquainted with, and my friend was happy to answer my queries—being something of an authority on the subject of Catholicism.

We spent a little time at my house afterwards, enjoying sodas from the coke machine and listening to some selections from my beloved Bert Kaempfert collection. With plenty of daylight remaining, my friend took his leave for the trip back to Washington—about a forty-five minute drive. I went upstairs and took a nap, having been up since around four-thirty in the morning. Later I watched the movie Jerry Maguire, which I’d seen once before but decided to revisit. I was glad I did; the portrayals of the different characters seemed credible—and I have to grudgingly admit that Tom Cruise is a rather decent actor.

I set the alarm for six o’clock the next morning—this being Labor Day and a holiday for most people. I would be driving to New Jersey to pick up the vintage riding mower I’d purchased online for forty-two dollars. Once again, I hadn’t really intended to be the winning bidder—it just worked out that way. I made the trip up to the northern part of the state in a little under four hours. I found the town of Pompton Lakes easily enough, and drove through its little commercial district along Main Street, before turning on the residential street where the mower was located. There it was, sitting in the driveway, just as the seller had said. She and her husband were out back, cleaning out the garage, and it looked like they were having a rummage sale. I suspect that maybe they gather things together as a sideline and either sell it online or locally. Everything they’d brought out of the garage was sold, said her husband.

The couple was pleasant enough, the day was absolutely beautiful, and I wheeled the little mower out to the car to remove the handlebars and get it ready to stow in the back. Mark, the woman’s husband, said he would gladly help me lift the thing in when I was ready to load it up. In about ten minutes I had the steering mechanism removed, and the riding tractor was ready to go inside the car. We slid it in easily, with room to spare, and I held it in place with my toolbox behind the rear wheels. I chatted briefly with Mark, who said he’d grown up in the quiet area—which did not appear to be too far from New York City. I asked about places to eat, but he didn’t recommend any of the local restaurants, suggesting that I could try the diner after I commented on seeing it along the main street.

I drove back into town, only a few minutes away, and of course the diner was closed—this being a holiday. But there was a much more impressive-looking place that billed itself as an Irish pub and restaurant. I thought I would take a look; maybe they would serve the corned beef and cabbage that I love. Inside was a massive bar that ran around the middle of a rather large room. The bartender presided over the activities and drinks from his place inside the ring. Next to this room was the dining area. I was seated at a conspicuous table somewhat in the middle of the room, and asked about the corned beef and cabbage. Yes, they had it, my server said. I ordered it right away, noting that it was only $10.95 This seemed like a bargain—especially since it came with red potatoes, meat and cabbage.

I waited for my food while looking over the state highway map I’d picked up at a rest area on the way to Pompton Lakes. I knew that if I started following the little scenic roads that led back in the general direction of home, it would be many hours before I would see my house again—and it would be well after dark. I just decided to retrace my steps, maybe drive around the town a little and call it a day. The drive up had put just a little over two hundred miles on the odometer.

When my food arrived, the plate contained a mountain of cabbage, potatoes, and of course great big slices of corned beef draped over the whole business. As a garnish, there was also broccoli and some big slices of squash. When my server asked if everything was ok, I commented that the food would keep my busy for some time. The food was unusually good, given the quantity that was served. I actually finished off the potatoes and cabbage, but—try as I might—I couldn’t polish off the corned beef, my favorite part. There was simply too much of it. I ended up taking the leftovers with me. The restaurant was good, and I would definitely eat there again. The only troubling thing was a bothersome fly that wouldn’t leave me alone, being insistent throughout the meal on trying to land on my food. I hate the the nasty things, and it made for an unpleasant distraction.

The drive home was uneventful, the holiday roads being lightly traveled, even at the end of this long weekend. Not having to drive in the vicinity of New York City was a bonus, as the radio reports from that area told of delays over the George Washington Bridge and other routes. I stopped once for gas and some provisions, getting terribly bored from my time spent behind the wheel, not really able to look about at the things that would normally be a pleasant diversion. Also, I was falling asleep. It was hard to keep my eyes open, so I pulled out two of my caffeine tablets that I use in extreme cases. Washed down with a coffee from the rest area, they quickly took effect. To help better pass the time, I munched on a bag of some red candies they sold at the rest stop. In New Jersey they have a law that doesn’t allow you to pump your own fuel—the attendants must see to this job. So I gladly handed over my credit card and told him to serve up however much the tank would hold. He also washed the windshield, doing a pretty thorough job of it, and I gave him what was probably an exorbitant tip of two bucks. Exorbitant for me, anyway.

New Jersey’s main roads have a remarkable number of broken-down vehicles on them. Flat tires, cars with their hoods open, owners mucking around in the engine compartment, cars helping other cars, and so on. Maybe it’s the sheer number of vehicles on the road that contributes to this phenomenon, but in my area I can’t say that I see disabled vehicles with the regularity I noticed on this brief trip. They were practically everywhere. As for the tire-changers, they were happily wrangling with their unstable and propped-up cars and trucks within a few feet of the speeding motorists, apparently oblivious to the danger. I noticed that—without exception—all of these cars were pulled over within a few hundred feet of an exit, where they could have driven to be safely out of harm’s way.

I made it home with plenty of daylight remaining. When I turned onto my street, I saw it immediately, beckoning: A late-model riding mower with all the desirable attachments in someone’s front yard. A sign on it said $100. I had to have it. I knew right away that this was a test, that the thing had been put there to taunt me, to bend my will as I drove by with my antique mower stowed in the back of the car—not even unloaded yet. I stopped to take a look, turned the lightly used motor over by hand, and convinced myself that the price was a giveaway. The tractor would run again just fine, would make someone a good, dependable riding mower. The extra equipment alone—the bagger and grass-catcher—were worth a few hundred dollars. This test—like the others that came before it—I was destined to fail. I drove home, slid the little antique rider out of the car on the makeshift ramps I’d cut this morning, and put the steering handle back together. I put gas into the dry tank and pulled a few times on the rope starter. It fired up and ran smoothly. I got on the tiny machine, figured out the controls and the clutch, and set about mowing the yard next door, which conveniently needed a good clipping. It did a remarkably good job, powering through the rather tall grass with little trouble. I was used to these underpowered machines balking at being asked to do any meaningful work. I headed into the really tall grass out back, and it continued to do just fine. I finished up the front yard and parked the amazing little machine. With a two-tone red and white seat and red sheet metal, it was actually kind of stylish.

After I’d finished with the lawn, I walked back up the street to visit the pharmacy and of course stop in to see about the tractor for sale. As I approached in the failing light, my worst fear was realized: Someone had beaten me to it. He was parked, his beaten-up pickup partway in the road, and his hazard lights flashing. He and the tractor’s owner had attached jumper cables to the dead battery and were trying to get the machine started. It had been sitting for about a year and of course had gum deposits that were clogging the fuel system. I watched as the two worked at it, successfully getting the motor to fire with some starter fluid for just a few seconds. It sounded fine, until it stopped. This was because it was running only on the little bursts of spray that the prospective buyer was spraying into the engine. I thought initially that he was trying to impress the owner with how the tractor was problematic, that it couldn’t be depended on, see—look how it won’t stay running. I imagined that this was a tactic to get the seller to come down on the already comically low price. I was wrong, however; it turns out that the man spraying the fluid into the engine was simply an idiot. He didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know the principles on which the motor depended to run. He thought that maybe putting the seat down would make it start up and stay running, because the safety switch was preventing it from doing so with the seat in the raised position. The seller patiently explained to the idiot man that he’d disabled the safety switch, that obviously the tractor would not have even attempted to run with the safety switch activated, would not have turned over the engine—nothing. The prospective buyer, the man with the can of starter fluid, looked at the seller blankly, not comprehending. He sprayed some more fluid, hoping that this time it would stay running. Realizing that the man with the can of fluid was an idiot, I decided to make an offer on the tractor right there.
“I hate to get in the middle of what you’re doing here,” I said, But if he doesn’t want it, I’ll give you a hundred dollars for the tractor.”
“Ok!” The seller was delighted.
“I’m going up the street to the store,” I said. “I’ll be back.”
I left them like that, the man with the beaten-up pickup wasting the seller’s time, trying repeatedly to get the machine to stay running, even though it was obvious that it needed a carburetor rebuild—something that would take me about forty-five minutes. I was glad I’d made the offer, because I didn’t want to see the idiot man get it for an even lower price.
He was an annoying, frivolous person, and had no consideration for the time he was taking away from the seller.

I returned maybe twenty minutes later to find the idiot man with the same purpose in mind—to try to fix the tractor with his little can of starter fluid. As I watched for a minute or so, he sullenly said he was going to buy it.
“I know what I have to do,” he said, presumably meaning he knew how to fix it. I very much doubted that, but wished him luck anyway. I was actually relieved; I didn’t need another machine around, and was glad that the seller was going to get the full price for it. What the idiot man didn’t know, however, was that he was wearing out the electric starter with his repeated attempts to fire the engine. These starters are not very robust, and constant use like this burns them out quickly by overheating them. He may, after a long and bumbling job, get the tractor running. Most likely he will not; but—even if he does—the starter will fail before too long. Of this I am quite certain. I went home and admired my New Jersey mower.