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True Story: The Missing Tools
My father was a diesel mechanic. He used to keep his tools, which were not inexpensive and were his livelihood, in a large tool box in the trunk of his huge Chrysler. You could usually tell when the tools were in there because the weight of them would make the back end of the car sink lower to the ground.
One day, my father noticed the car wasn’t sinking low to the ground. He opened the trunk to find that the tool box and all of it’s contents were gone.
After he told me, I immediately had a suspect in mind. There was this guy that lived next door who was notorious for his drug use and subsequent thievery. I told my father, “I think it was him, Dad!” He looked surprised that I suspected him but I followed my hunch.
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I related this story to a shop owner friend of mine, this morning. He was watering his plants in front of his shop when I noticed that the planters were chained and locked down. I said, “if you didn’t have those plant boxes chained down, they’d be stolen, wouldn’t they?” He said, “it already happened. They took everything. It cost over $200.00 to replace it!”
For some reason it triggered my memory about the tool box, so I told him the story. He was keeling over with laughter when he heard the tools were back in the trunk. “That guy was stupid,” he said. He sure was! Haha.
The Big Squeeze (originally posted on September 15, 2005)
Sooooooooooooo, yesterday I was sitting comfortably on the V train commuting to work. My commute is about a half an hour from the time I get on the train. During that time I read the paper for a few minutes and then doze off for a little while until I get to my stop. I don’t get enough sleep during the week and the nap helps. I like to sit on the end where there is a partition that I can lean against. It’s almost everyone’s favorite seat, I think. It is part of a 3 seat bench that has the indentation where your butt is supposed to fit right in. Sitting right next to me was a slender woman and right next to her was an average size man. When the doors opened up at Roosevelt Avenue, the man on the end got up and disembarked the train. The girl who was next to me slid over leaving the seat in the middle empty. As she was sliding over, a woman boarded the train who was no less than 350 lbs. and decided she was going to sit in that empty seat. I was thinking to myself, “oh no, why did that girl have to move over?” because this obese woman could not possibly fit into that small space without causing someone discomfort.
Suddenly, she turned around and positioned herself for her descent. When her rear end became level with the seat, she swiped her body to the left, then to the right and started to inch herself very carefully into that small opening. At first she was sitting on the edge but eventually, within the time frame of a few train stops, her spine was up against the back of the seat. I lost control of my arms as I was being compressed into the partition on my right. The left side of my body was starting to sweat and feel uncomfortable because of the fat that was overlapping onto me. I saw people staring, probably wondering how I felt being all squished up like that. This woman didn’t even say “excuse me”. I tried as hard as I could to bear with the situation but alas I couldn’t take it any longer. It took all of my energy to pull myself up out of that seat. It felt like a vacuum was created behind me as I rose up. When I was finally free I stood in front of her holding onto a rail. She had to know why I got up. She needed two seats. She eventually got them without a single word being uttered. That’s what I call throwing one’s weight around.
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It would have been nicer for her to make a request such as “do you mind if I sit down because in my present condition I can’t stand up comfortably?” Or something to that effect. I’m not angry about it, I just think it’s a funny story.
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Memories (reposted from July 23, 2006)
When I was 17 years old, my father took me and my brother, Vernon, on a barge in the middle of the East River. He was a diesel mechanic who made sure the equipment was running properly on the barge. I believe the personnel on the barge were repairing or maintaining some pipeline that runs at the river bottom.
A short time after being on the barge, it started to tilt to one side and was on its way to sinking. There are legs on the barge that hold it stationary and the legs on one side started to collapse. The warning alarm was sounded and it started to get scary but because we were with my father, I felt that nothing bad was going to happen to us. I don’t think my father was that confident about that, though. He made sure that we were equipped with lifejackets in case we wound up in the water. He didn’t have one. He always made sure he took care of his kids first.
It seemed like out of nowhere, tug boats came from all over the place to the rescue. The tug boats managed to keep the barge afloat and the barge “legs” were straightened out and once again anchored it.
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Phil was sent to Vietnam. Luckily, he came back unscathed. He went to college afterwards, fully taking advantage of his military GI Bill education benefits. He became a photographer. I haven’t seen him in years. I hope he’s doing well. I have no idea where he is.
If I had not gone into the Navy at 17 years old, I would have wound up being drafted the following year because my birthday came up as #8 in the lottery. I probably would have wound up in Vietnam, as well. I didn’t join for any particular reason, other than I wanted to get away from home. I had something to prove to my father, I suppose. We were constantly at battle with each other. Funny thing is he was the person I missed the most when I was away. Early enlistment just may well have saved my life. I guess I’ll never know.
Anyway, seeing this barge on the East River as I crossed over the 59th Street Bridge on my bicycle, brought these memories to mind. I just wanted to share my thoughts.