Urban

The District's DMV has a deservedly, erm, disappointing reputation. My last encounter with them brought me to tears. So when I got the notice in the mail that my registration was about to expire and I should plan another trip to the DMV by June 26th, I promptly put the letter in my (growing) pile of To-Do and made a conscious decision to procrastinate. I accomplished this goal very well and finally got around to doing something about that letter on June 27th.

Last year, I came out to my car on a crisp spring morning to discover that my driver's side mirror had been shattered. The mechanics still worked, there was just no mirror. I called a few Toyota dealers and auto parts stores. The estimate was $500-$600. "For a mirror?" "Yup, 'fraid so. You gotta replace the whole piece, can't just buy a mirror." Yeah.

So I bought a hand held mirror for $2.99 and ripped the plastic casing off. Then I bought a glass cutter and cut a piece of glass the shape and size of the mirror casing. Then I Krazy glued it to the frame. Heckuva lot cheaper than $500. It did its job for a good year, but I knew it wouldn't pass the DC inspection.

Knowing that the inspection was coming up "sorta soon," (I was deliberately trying to avoid thinking about my debt to the DMV) I called the Toyota dealership again on Saturday. "Yup, we can get that. Nope, it's not $500. It's easy to install. The total will be $150." $150 is still not that great, but it's better than $500. So I picked up the part on Tuesday night. The Toyota lady seemed confused that I didn't want it installed, but she shrugged, "Ok, good luck." I left with my new mirror.

Wednesday morning the 27th, I drove to the Vehicle inspection site. I parked in a nearby gas station with my wrench and my new mirror, ready to replace it and removed the black plastic casing to reveal three easy screws. The morning was just heating up, the smog was beginning to feel thick, and the highway was beginning to give off waves of heat. At that moment a short, unkempt middle-aged African-American man came over and offered his assistance: "I fix my daughter's car like this, it is pretty easy..." He clearly knew what he was doing. I held the screws while his short fingers removed the offending mirror and found the plug for the motor. It took about 10 minutes and there I was with a new mirror. I'm sure it would have taken me longer, although I would have figured it out eventually. "Thank you!"I smiled, truly grateful for his time-saving help. His eyes were sad, "Could you help me out a little?" Of course I could. I gave him a ten. He tottered off to the gas station for a cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes. I drove to the DMV and was first in line for inspection.

The inspector failed me and my newly mirrored Toyota for non-operational headlights. I tried to smile prettily and told him I would get it done RIGHT AWAY, but rules are rules. "Where can I get a headlight?" I asked. "Try Dura, up on Rhode Island Avenue."

I called Dura, "I need a headlight for a 2001 Corolla. Can I get one there?"

"Yes ma'am, we have a lot of those, and they're only $9.95."

"Can I put it in myself? Is it pretty easy?"

"Shouldn't be too hard, no, ma'am."

"Great! See you soon."

I drove up 395 and was on Rhode Island Ave in no time. The road and sidewalks widened and the houses began to look disheveled. The boring but approachable strip malls disappeared and the shops looked more...local. I passed churches on big lots, beauty parlors, and local donut shops. There it was, 2066. I parked and hobbled in in my white suit and fat walking boot. I must have looked conspicuous: Maurice behind the counter looked up kindly and said, "Are you here for the headlight?" He looked a lot younger than his voice sounded, and he held up the small package. I was amused by this and smiled, got out my credit card, and said, "Yup, that's me!" Maurice gave me tips on how to install the light and told me to "be sure and stay cool out there today!" I haven't gotten service that friendly in a long time.

I pulled my car into the shade and opened the hood. I poked around a while and decided that I had no idea how to install a headlight. So I walked across the parking lot into an AutoZone and asked if anyone there knew about Toyota headlights. The woman was clean and professional. "No, but you see that guy over there under the tree? His name's Joe. He'll help you out." I followed her finger through the heat waves undulating over the parking lot to see a tall, lean, black, black man sitting under the tree with a tall, large white man wearing a black t-shirt. They looked quite at home in their lawn chairs, not comfortable, but not uncomfortable. Just there, sitting still, in the heat. Something about the picture made me feel truly urban and summery, these two unlikely shapes reflecting through the heat, drinking cold beer under a sparse tree growing up and out in a city parking lot. The air smelled hot and urban, the sky was clear, soft blue with a brown haze hovering over the horizon. I think they had seen me looking forlorn in my white straight skirt and broken foot poking around cluelessly under the hood in the AutoZone parking lot in the hot sun. As I left the store, the tall black man casually approached me, his wiry muscles glistening in the hot sun. His eyes were deep and black above his chiseled cheekbones. He squinted at me.

"Whatchyou need help wit?"

"I need to replace a headlight and I've never done that before."

His expression didn't change, and he lead me back to my car. "I been working on cars for 42 years." Pause as he fingered the headlight under the hood. "It's the only thing I can DO, you know what I'm saying?" I nodded and expressed my respect for a good mechanic. "It's how I make my survival, hear me?" I nodded again as I squinted at him through my windshield. The headlights turned on and he closed the hood. "Now, you gonna pay for that sweetheart..." "Of course. Let me just go and get some cash." I asked the woman inside, "So Joe, how much to people usually tip him?" "Oh, five, ten." "Great, can I have these batteries and cash back for Joe?" "No problem." She was efficient and fast and friendly. I placed the ten in Joe's long, bony, ebony fingers as I left and thanked him again for his help. His expression didn't change, but he nodded, turned, and sauntered back to the lawn chair under the tree.

I passed the inspection and re-registered my car, easy as pie. Got to work before lunch. Breathed a few prayers of gratitude for the two men who helped me that morning. Wondered what the rest of their lives are like. Decided to return to Dura and AutoZone if ever I need another headlight.

Cast

This time around, I was pretty lucky: no plaster cast. Last time, I had a big, heavy, itchy plaster cast up to my knee. It was small enough to slip bootleg jeans over it, but still bulky, still unmanageable, and by the end of the 2 months, completely filthy. When they removed it, my skin was pale, pale, and my calf was jell-o, atrophied and sickly, decorated with spindly leg hairs that hadn't been shaved in weeks. My foot was alarmingly skinny and boney--but healed--and there was two months worth of dead skin sloughing off at the slightest touch. I remember sitting in the shower for at least an hour, scrubbing and scrubbing, shaving and re-shaving, massaging and marveling at the appendage I hardly recognised.

Now I have a walking cast, a big black boot with five thick velcro straps, room enough to wiggle my painted toes. I can take it off when I bathe, when I sleep, when I get home from crutching up from Dupont Circle in the sweltering 90 degree humidity. The heavy support of foam and bandage and long cotton sock feel good on my fragile foot, but not on the rest of my sweating body. I am grateful to not have to scrape off two months of debris, for being able to shave and massage my weakened calf, for the stability of a wide, flat surface that I can balance my left foot on without putting pressure on it.

Crutches chafe under your arms, they make your triceps, pecs, and deltoids sore, sore, sore. After a few weeks of sweaty palms, the handles feel positively grimy. You can't carry anything that doesn't strap on your back. (Although yesterday I did make it home with two pints of Ben and Jerrys in my right hand.) A three-block walk is daunting, and your knee feels heavy and strained from holding your bum foot up.

But at least I don't have a plaster cast.

Say something!

I know you've all been dyyying to comment, but for some reason, the comments have been disabled lately. But lo, they are again enabled. Comment away.

Silver Lining

My triceps are getting very strong. I have all this time to re-learn my guitar scales since I won't be dancing anytime soon. People hold the door for me all the time. I have a very easy conversation starter. My toes peep through my cast so at least you can see the pretty color of pink they are painted. I have a walking boot instead of a plaster cast, so I can sleep and bathe and shave my legs without having to worry about my bum leg. I can still manage to do the ab workouts at my gym. I get to ride the motorized shopping cart in Trader Joe's. I have a valid excuse to do nothing with my afternoon except sit in Tryst with my legs up and read my latest novel.

I noticed, last time around on crutches, that by the time they were removed, I had developed an acute sense of the handicapped. Although I was myself handicapped to some degree and couldn't help anyone, I was alert to the needs around me because I was so alert to my own needs. The girl with the books piled in her arms, she needs someone to open the door...The woman with the wheelchair can't reach the elevator button...The man with crutches can't balance his crutch and his latte...Does no one SEE that I can't open this door by myself?...

I also, to a lesser, but more interesting, degree, began to be aware of hidden needs...The lonely one in our group who never spends time with anyone one-on-one because she's so easily forgettable and people neglect to invite her...the girl who blamed herself for her parent's nasty divorce...The self-assured, confidence of a hig achiever that hides an intense confusion about what she's achieving... In many ways, I began to see my injury--and my crutches--as a metaphor for all our daily struggles. Even when I am perfectly healthy and capable, there are internal handicaps that are just as daunting as that heavy door at the bottom of the church steps, the one that was so difficult to open with one foot and crutches: I'm quick to judge, slow to realize that I've judged. I'm often more concerned with how people see me than how I really am. I am lazy when I think no one will notice. Although I don't lie, my first inclination is always to fudge the truth a little, to make a better story. Maybe these are your handicaps. Maybe yours are completely different.

Thomas Aquinas said, "Be assured that if you knew all, you would pardon all."

We all have handicaps of some sort. Some of them, we can see.

Somebody get this woman a violin.

So I woke up Sunday morning with no way to hold my head that didn't hurt. And not because of alcohol (that's never happened) but because of an ear-splitting cold, complete with runny nose and cough. And! Crusty...pink...stingy...eyes. Pink eye. Add it to the list: torn contact/scratched cornea, broken foot, head cold, pink eye, all within three weekends, and all overlapping at some point.

So do you think I'm being tested or do you think I'm being punished for somethihng I did? Or do you think it's all a complete fluke and hey, it happens?

I'm going to go drink more tea.