So get a call from Leigh this afternoon and she’s in stranded in a visitor center parking lot at Mount St. Helens. Big S the Passat Wagon blew a back tire.

Great.

So I get on the horn with the insurance people in the cool triangular building on Sandy. Or so I think. 15 minutes later, on hold, I realize that the advertisement playing over and over on the “on hold” recording is from AllState, not State Farm. Wrong insurance agency. Great.

I call my State farm people and they dig up a couple towing services in the greater Castle Rock, Washington area. Great.

First guy I talk to, after carefully explaining the situation, pauses for a long time and says in a gruff, ornery tone, “Don’t know if I want to do it. Was just about to go home.” Great.

I call the next place and they can’t change a spare, due to insurance problems. Great.

Third guy I call is from Longview, some 20 miles down the 5, and they agree to do it. “We’ve got a guy leaving right now, sir.” they say, and I breath a sigh of relief. Kinda great.

So then a half hour later, I get a call from Leigh and she says “We can’t find the bolt. The lug nut lock thing. Nowhere to be found. Nope.” Great.

It’s gone? Huh? Wha’? But, I made triple sure the guys who changed my last set of tires put the thing back. I swear i did. Great.

So I have her scour the rig, and I start backtracking. The last tires I had changed were at the Les Schwab out on Sandy and 120something, and… And I call them, and there’s no lug nut lock thing in their junk drawer and I’m one S.O.L. S.O.B. Great.

Big S’ tires need one of those 10 star lug nut lock thingies, and need it bad, or else. Thanks, Volkswagen. Great.

I start calling Volkswagen dealers. And each “parts expert” knows what I precisely talking about, but one dealership after another doesn’t have my part in stock, and the last guy says, “The computer says the closest one is 167 miles away in Seattle.” Nice to hear. Great.

So I try one last joint, up in Vancouver. “Yeah, we’ve got one here, but it isn’t for sale.” I plead with him, and promise him a long, long life and good health. He offers to let me use it, if I leave Gary for collateral, or a credit card. Great.

So it’s traffic time in Portland, and I jump in the van and start my way up Sandy (which takes fucking forever at 5:13 PM) and up to 205 North (which is jam-packed with turds heading back to Vancouver) and then across the Columbia River and into Washington (which is the home of singing acts like Mudhoney and Queensryche) and find the world’s last Volkswagen dealer, and the guy has the lug nut lock thingamajig waiting for me on the counter. Really great.

I jump on the 5 and hump it up to Kelso, find Big S in a Sears parking lot, get the jack, lay down on the cement, it starts to rain, I jack up the car and proceed to change the tire with surgical precision and NASCAR speed. The girls walk up, having just finished a festive meal from the Sears Auto Shop vending machine, and they are good to go. Great.

I drive the hour back to Portland and go right to the shop, to pick up where the fuck I left off. Great.

All this shit, all five hours of it, adds up to this: Whole day, shot to shit.

Great.

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ON THE PLAYER:

01. “Fresh Air” on NPR, on the way up.
02. “Philosophy Talk” on NPR, on the way back to the city.