As the country goes, so goes the Avocado. You knew something would happen. Things just kept going, and it felt like they did so on borrowed time. What would happen was anybody’s guess, but we just kept puttering along, fixing little issues as they came up but really running on hope that nothing big would happen. Unfortunately, our shitty little metaphor ends there, as the US doesn’t have AAA, and her issue is way worse than the ruptured return line and lack of desire to get underneath the truck in my work clothes to patch things up.
But the free tow got it to a shop, which, definitely not for free, dropped the tank and put a 90 degree return line fitting on the tank to keep the line away from the bottom of the bed. They returned the truck 3 1/2 weeks later. The fuel gauge no longer works, and the fuel sloshed out the vent line which they seem to have forgotten to tighten. Given the urgency of finding silver linings in the current crisis, I’ll stop the ruminations at feeling a bit better about my own fuckups, since I don’t charge anyone a Benjamin an hour for them.
At any rate, back to work, feverishly searching out happy distractions such as grabbing a load of topsoil before the rumored lockdown comes, so that Daughter and I can pursue some vegetable gardening during a necessarily isolated spring. In our new world, the cashier line of three stretched across the parking lot.
Thinking of musicians, service professionals, anyone who relies on humans’ social proclivities for income. It just ain’t the same on Skype, and I just can’t wait to get back to a Mike Stern concert.