I feel like an abused marionette with fate cruelly yanking my strings this way and that while I flounder, flail, and fail. It was Sunday, my third and most trying day without coffee. On my way to work, up the steep hill that prevents most La Jollans from walking or bicycling to the university, my car began to sputter as though it was running out of gas. But the tank was full.

Two miles later my temperature gauge hit red. My car was overheating. Then it was really overheating. My battery light came on and a couple minutes later my service engine light, then only a few minutes from work my holy-shit-your-car-is-about-to-explode-if-you-don’t-pull-over light came on. I knew I was going to be late for work, I knew Missy was going to be pissed. But I didn’t want to explode.

So I pulled over on the side of the highway, popped open my hood and let the engine – which was hissing and smoking – cool for about 10 minutes. By the time I did make it to work – half an hour late – it was hissing and smoking again and another two lights turned on – low coolant and low oil. My dashboard was like a microcosmic Las Vegas Strip.

I went into work. I had already called Missy explaining about my car, explaining that I would be late. (It should be noted here in fairness to Missy that I always arrive late and that I always have an excuse) Apparently she had called me earlier in the day and left a voice mail saying she wanted me to come in early because she had an important “art installation” to go to.

“It starts at five,” she explained while I was making two double lattes to help kill the line.
“Well that’s good, it’s only 4 o’ clock.”
“You know I can’t go like this right?” (I wish I could share with you all the tone of her voice)
“Um, well you still have an hour than … I mean, an hour is enough time to get ready right? Two double latte’s, that’ll be seven dollars even.”
“Well it would have been nice if you called me back. What will you be having.” The couple, giving me a sympathetic look said two iced teas. “Passion fruit or blood orange?”
They’d both behaving passion fruit. With caffeine, which I was craving more than ever before. Just one cup of coffee … that was all I needed.
“Like I told you, I haven’t checked my messages all day.”

She didn’t respond. We killed the line and then she called up her friend, the artist … who apparently was about to begin “installing.”

“Hey”
…
“So … you still having the installation?”
…
“Really? Rained Out? You mean it was outside?”
…
“Ah, I’m sorry babe. Well, will you be able to have it later?”
…
“Alright, hun, well call me when you get a chance.”
…
“Ok, bye.”

I couldn’t believe it. She had this look like “oh, that poor baby.” She looked in love. I could see the smoke still rising from my hood behind her.

Work was ok. I mean, it was typical, kinda slow really. It has been lately. Sometimes when I walk to the market to pick up some tomatoes or sprouts I pass by the new – now not so new – Starbucks and some of our old regulars reading over newspapers there. They look down embarrassed. I can’t generalize all of the old regulars we used to have who now have their coffee at Starbucks but most of them are mid-30’s to late 40’s. Most of them want a quiet place to read the Union Tribune. Most of them are hard working republicans who prize efficiency and consistency. Two things we proudly lack at Miracles.

It was about 9:15 when I got out of there. A rush of high school and college kids came in late to get some last minute studying in for midterms. I was supposed to be at Wendy’s by 9:30 who offered to cook dinner and rented a movie for us to watch. I was worried that I wouldn’t make it to Wendy’s at all. In fact, I was surprised when my car started. As soon as I made it up the steep Birmingham hill my stereo turned off. Then my headlights got dim. Driving down the I-5 passing through Solana Beach my headlights turned off completely and the festival of warning lights became to dim to know which ones were on and which one’s (if any) were off.

I stayed in the right hand lane. Stayed in fourth gear. Stayed around 45 mph. All my lights were turned off. Even my hazards wouldn’t work. I was worried someone could come speeding behind me and rear end me without even seeing me.

But somehow I made it to Genesee. Somehow I even made it up the sloping off-ramp. Somehow I even made it four blocks from Wendy’s house.

But no further. My car was dead. Would not start. And I was facing uphill. I put it in neutral and tried to push from behind but then my steering wheel would turn to the curb. I ran up to adjust it to the left and the car started rolling back down the hill. I wound up where I started and then I called Wendy. Actually, just as I was reaching for my phone, she called me. Her “hello” had that where-in-the-hell-are-you tone that I was starting to get accustomed to.

“Can you come and help me”

With Wendy’s help I was able to push the car up the hill and then coast it down the hill into a parking spot where I wouldn’t be towed the next day. Wendy was a trooper – she was already in her pajamas, wanting to eat and watch a movie. It was obvious she did not want to be out there.

Then something started clicking like crazy. I learned the next day that it was a broken relay, but at the time Wendy and I were pretty sure it was a bomb. We got the fuck outta there.

Dinner was really good – shrimp cous cous. The movie was really terrible – a French flick called “City of Lost Children,” which was visually as stunning as a Tim Burton movie but completely lacking in plot. If I was on acid, lots and lots of acid, maybe a significance would’ve come to me. But there was no acid to be had.

Around midnight Wendy reluctantly drove me back home where I was overcome with flatulence like never before. I slept with my buttocks poking out of the blankets like a tipped over smoke stack.

I still don’t know the status of my car. Yesterday afternoon my mechanic called me saying it was either a broken head gasket ($200+) or the whole engine was fucked ($1000+). I could not even sale my car for $1000.

I could – I should – call the mechanic right now and ask him which it is. But I don’t want to. I’d almost rather just never call.

Last night I was playing basketball at the gym and I think I broke my finger. Laura says I’m being dramatic and put some sort of salve on it which she puts on anything remotely resembling an injury – but my entire finger (and fingernail) is purple and swollen to double its size. It’s unbelievable how frustrating it is to type with nine fingers when you’re brain is so used to 10.

Being without a car does have some advantages, however. Namely, walking. Today Laura and I went down to the beach to do some reading and then I went for a walk by myself up to the Goldfish Point Café where I am writing this. I forgot how beautiful a walk it is from La Jolla Shores, where we live, to La Jolla Cove - the place where tourists go to spend money. All of the pictures on this post I took on my walk over here.

I do have an admission. I have wavered just once on my no coffee for two weeks resolution. What’s worse is that it came from Starbucks. A venti coffee frappucino after being at the mechanics all morning and then having to wait for the tow-truck driver. I don’t know why I did it, but it felt damn good to rebel. Otherwise, it’s been pure tea.