Don't Worry About It Sarahjoy (Continued)

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She knows that on Tuesday I flew from Albuquerque to Southern California to pick up the balance of my personal possessions from my former residence. Of course I don't have to tell her the real issue: these personal possessions are the remains of a twenty year marriage that couldn't endure alcoholism. These remains are literally and sentimentally everything when you'd previously left that house upon police order for your safety, in your vehicle, with your computer, wardrobe and dog. The significance does not escape her, this was her home also. This was the place where she left her trophies and ribbons for marriage, and it was the place where she got married. This was also the place where on her last visit that alcoholic she knew as her stepdad spewed verbal violations. They echo in the air still today.
Friday afternoon I start the seven hundred mile drive to New Mexico, my new home. Generally I don't drive big things like trucks, but by Saturday morning I'm beginning to feel like the truck, which I've named Beast, and I are doing well - we're in a zone. But, ghack! Stopping for gas and coffee, I pulled in too close to the gasoline island and ran into the low concrete barrier that protects the gasoline pumps. Thinking uh-ohh, potential Thelma and Louise moment, I immediately stop, the side of the truck didn't look too bad, and score one for me, I'd bought the extra insurance! I asked the guy fueling up next to me if he'd help me straighten out the truck and put it in line so I could get my gas. We both laughed at what was a brand new truck, errr, with a long scrape, but joking, 'you can hardly see it!' He tried to straighten out the truck and fix my minor catastrophe but the truck wouldn't move. He tried over and over to accelerate forward, then reverse, forward, reverse. Nothing. In between he'd get out, manually work at the damaged area, still trying to separate Beast from the concrete. He'd break off pieces of Beast and then climb in and over and over, Beast wouldn't go. He's being super sweet and polite and by this time, he's calling me 'Lit-tle La-dy' (think John Wayne speak), while assuring me, 'Don't Wor-ry A-bout It, I'm Gon-na' Take Care Of It." We're getting more acquainted in between the go, no go, go, no go. His politeness is now matched with the heavy wielding of a hammer at Beast and I'm starting to think, "Mr. Al-a-ba-ma, thank you and all ....." but the damage is getting worse and the truck still won't move. I happen to be wearing a dress since everything else in my travel bag is dirty and after he pulls the loose trim off the bottom of the truck, he bent the long piece into a nice compact shape, tucked it into the cab of the truck, so I wouldn't get my dress dirty. I feel awful because this guy has spent a lot of time, has a splinter in his finger and my truck has a hole in it the size of a tire now (and no trim). But as any woman who has ever asked for help from a man knows, one wonders what the etiquette is for how a lit-tle-la-dy goes about butting in and giving it a try again herself. We lit-tle-la-dies so want this man to be able to be the superman after what we've put him through. But I was also worn out from the week-long journey and I still had hundreds and hundreds of miles ahead of me, had to unload the truck's contents and have Beast supposedly delivered in tact in Albuquerque, by 3pm that afternoon. Beast's decision to not move is literally preventing me from my new enchanted life in New Mexico. (The State is called the Land of Enchantment and I've never seen more beautiful sunrises and sunsets.) So, I'm telling my kid, my daughter, Sarahjoy, via our quick phone call that I had to interruptus-rude-amongst-us Mr. Al-a-ba-ma, that I'd taken over and climbed up into Beast. I put the truck in drive, released the emergency brake and vi-o-la! What happens but, Beast glides away from the concrete like its on ice skates. Well, there you go. I tell my daughter that I know immediately I have a problem because I don't want Mr. Al-a-ba-ma to know that he was an idiot. He'd never released Beast's emergency brake. My daughter and I are sharing these things, concerned over his efforts and we both lament that the guy got a splinter - we hate that. She's telling me that on her end the words, "Don't Worry About It, Sarahjoy, that Joe Will Take Care Of It," really mean that she'd better worry because its her job on the line (and obviously Joe is just an incompetent a**). We have to sign off - this time and every time the quick goodbye emotions intensify the feel of the geographic separation and surge of huge love, but like pulling a band-aid off, we know, do it quick and it hurts less. We also both know that if 'Mr. Al-a-ba-ma tells you that you don't need to wor-ry a-bout it lit-tle la-dy' . . . . . lit-tle la-dy, you'd better worry.