Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Tale 3

Da Durango

Brrring brrringg (telephone)


"Lisa. Oh my gawd," drawls my Southernfied younger brother of nine years. When he gets really excited, his drawl gets real bad and I can barely make him out. When he's had a bit too much to drink, I don't know what the hell he's on about. "You own a Durango, right?"

"Yes," I say, clearly and drawl-free.

"What year is it?" says who I shall refer to as Music Boy.


"Oh man. Oh gawd, mine is a '99." Mine? Last I heard, he was lucky to find a place that would rent an apartment to him, and every reputable car dealership had turned his sorry-college-grad-broke, financially-disaster-prone clueless-money-wise brother down. "Listen," he drawls.(I'm not the only one who commands people I'm speaking to to actually listen...)

"My fucking alarm won't stop. I turned the fucking thing on last night when I got home, and I opened the passenger door and now it fucking won't stop and the truck won't start." This language from a music teacher at an elementary and high school in the poshest, priciest part of Georgia, in the Atlanta area. "Did you ever have that happen?"

"Yes, just turn the alarm off with the key fab." Like, Duuuhh.

"I don't have one. I got a copy of the orginal key but that's it." (Sooo umm how'd you turn the alarm off? no no don't ask, you'll be here all day) "I called my landlord and he thought it sucked." Yep, it would suck. "I called dad, he didn't know what the fuck to do he just yelled at me, told me all what I should have done and then bitched at me 'what the fuck Music Boy, how the fuck you gonna get to school tomorrow?' so he wasn't any help." (note about my dad, he's a brilliant man, best father you could ask for, great in a pinch, but when you get yourself in a fix, he can only be helpful if he swears at you, even better if there's a group to swear at or an object. when he can't help you, well, sit yourself down for a nice Sicilian cursing)

I look at McRed.

"Don't give me the phone. I don't want to fucking talk to him." (note, McRed is furious that my brother took 7 years to get his degree on my dad's dime. He doesn't care that he's a musician with half his head permanetly in musical la la creative land, or that the reason he's got this posh position so young is because he's amazingly talented, truly good with kids and an excellent born-teacher, albeit a bit curse-happy, financially disastrous, and honestly, to those who know and love him, filled with angst, nervous energy, and a walking messy wreck truly in need of a wife to settle him down... someone, please... marry him... we fixed him best we could... oh right, so McRed has decided to not speak to him until he's 30, married, or better, a father.

So I look at him again pleafully. McRed says, "there's usually some combination of brake/steering wheel movements to disarm the alarm and allow the truck to start." ummm.

"Okay Music Boy, so you opened the passenger side with the key that's a copy and the alarm turned on?" I ask.

"yeah I dont' fucking know what to do. My landlord didn't know what to do. Dad couldn't help. No one fucking knows what to do." So he calls me, his big sister. I'm touched.

"Okay. So. Did you get out of the truck, shut the doors, lock them, and then open the driver's side door with the key?"


"Naw," the drawl is thickening. "It can't fucking be that. Oh my fucking gawd..." (i truly hope his language is different with the band kids)



I hear a deep throaty engine noise, followed by the exact sound made in the garbage chute scene during Star Wars when they are all about to be crushed but R2-D2 saves the day. Hooting, hollering and sheer joy that lives have just been saved.

I start laughing with him. McRed grins (because he can't believe my idea actually worked).

"Oh my fucking gawd. I LOVE you lahdeeda. I fucking love you. Oh I am not going to tell anyone this shit. It's too fucking embarassing. No fuck that. I'm telling everyone, this shit's fucking funny. Fucking even dad didn't know what the fuck to do. I wasn't gonna call you, cuz I didn't think you could help but then I remembered you had a Durango. oh fucking shit. I LOVE you lahdeeda I fucking LOVE you ahhh ah ah ha ha ha" The drawl is nearing incomprehensible.

"You better call dad and tell him I fucking figured it out." I remind him.

Note to all, whenever I'm the last resort of hope, I usually pull through, this is why people call me. Yet, they all seem surprised when my advice works.

Second note, if you don't believe me about the drawl, it's so bad, once I dialed the wrong number, but didn't realize it until after a twenty-minute conversation with another drawling southerner who, as it so happened, at first thought I was an out-of-state cousin of his wife's, and at second thought, was too polite to interrupt the conversation to let me know he wasn't my brother... which started another conversation... you get the idea.

"Yeah I fucking will. Oh thank gawd. oh man, I fucking love you. I'm fucking gonna send you a thing of Baileys."

"Yeah, send me Bailey's Music Boy, that'd be perfect." It would, too, but he'll never actually get around to shipping it, and quite frankly, he'll buy me a bottle and then drink it. It's our 'thing' that we both love the same favorite drink and the same favorite lunch.

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