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A year ago today I took a gamble.

When playing the odds, especially in cases like the ones I’ve been playing, coming up ahead 2 out of 3 times is actually a very good thing.

Especially when playing with insurance companies.

The first.

There I was, on my way to work as I do. Seated comfortably upright, spine in neutral, bolstered by the surprisingly comfy economy seats of my very economy ride. My trusty Little Blue Belle. My mirrors, side and rear view, were checked and re-checked. Affixed at the best vantage to afford me the greatest visual capacity with the slightest of cervical migrations.

The gas tank, while less thirsty than its predecessor, was still amply replete with the lowest priced regular unleaded (who says that anymore these days, right?) gasoline ($1.17/L, CAD, circa Dec 2017) to fuel my 17 km journey, knowing that this time, with lessons learned from running on empty, I would not be stuck and facing certain death.

My mind was clear and free. My heart, still the barren wasteland it has always been.

And I drove, knowing that this was the second last day of my work week before a New Year. Before a fresh start. Before the imagined greatness of New Years Eve Eve was upon me.

As I came upon my usual right turn at my usual intersection to head North, I slowed down to stop for the red light, as is the law. While doing so, I noticed that the car ahead had decelerated a bit more rapidly than I would have expected, and I would soon learn why.

The roads were slick, gently adorned by a coating of soft, grimy slush-like snow, unfit for human consumption, much like the yellow variety we’ve all been warned against eating from our youth.

Years ago, my parents in their all knowing wisdom, the kind only parents possess, had put me in ‘extra defensive’ driving classes. The lesson: leave room between yourself and the car ahead. Many chevrons. A lesson I had taken to heart, whether consciously or subconsciously, it bode well for me in that moment.

I hit that same slick, icy patch and felt the ABS kick in.

As further taught in that same driving class, I kept steady pressure, confident in technological advances over the past 25 years, trusting Little Blue Belle to do the needful. The patch was overcome, to be clear, not just due to technology, but also due to our protagonist’s incredible, mad driving skills. The tires, compelled by the brakes caught purchase.

The car came to a stop.

I had avoided sliding, in an unbecoming fashion, into the car stopped ahead. With room to spare.

At that same instant, as I was braking, my eyes were trained on the previously described, properly adjusted, rear-view mirror.

An involuntary smile escaped my pursed, lush lips. I shook my head. Time, in all its magnificence, slowed. A VHS cassette played in slow motion. Grainy. Frame by frame. It was quite an experience.

The guy behind me had hit the same icy patch. He, perhaps, had not done the same driving course because unfortunately, for both he and I, there wasn’t enough space for his car to stop. That is, until his bumper kissed mine.

Without consent.

And as we know, that never turns out well.

The second.

Driving to work the week before on the Thursday, taking the same route as always, something different happened.

A rock flung by a semi truck careened from the ground and sped at incredible speed, possibly light speed, towards my Little Blue Belle.

That sound. That sound. It can never be unheard. Echoing. Reverberating. That siren call of what was to happen.

An audible gasp escaped my pursed, lush lips. Pain, which I don’t believe in, welled up inside me. One word encapsulating that experience, softly emitted, like air escaping an opened valve. Low and drawn out.

Ooooooooouch.

Fortunately, no crack was seen on inspection. No damage was done.

Until that night. That cold, frigid night.

Knowing that a winter storm was brewing and would wreak havoc in the early morrow, we decided to head towards the far North that evening.

Setting off for the roughly 400 km trek, supplies were packed and we set off. The same tank was filled up, leaving nothing to chance like years before as written about in the recent past.

That glint. That soul crushing glint.

It came just mere moments after turning on the defogger to full blast to keep the growing internal fog away.

The growth.

That heart breaking growth.

Like a newly emerging root, seeking new space, new sustenance, it grew. From what started off as what I can only imagine a virtually invisible chip, in the matter of just a few moments, became an incredible rift, one to rival even the magnificent Great Rift Valley.

The windshield would need to be replaced. It was beyond saving. All in just moments.

A year ago today.

Calling my insurance company after submitting an online claim from the rear-ending, I discussed my windshield coverage which I hadn’t had a chance to discuss as yet. I was in luck. I could get both repairs done at the same time, using their preferred vendor without losing any further time. Because as we all know, time is our most valuable currency, and when you can save any of it to invest in more enjoyable pursuits, that is success.

So that’s the two out of three.

The third.

Having experienced such great luck with my insurer that day, I was overjoyed. Happiness beyond belief. This never happens. It’s never this easy. No fault. Deductible – waived. Ahhh, luck.

But, with any luck, it soon runs out.

Opening an envelope, I sliced my finger. Blood. Blood everywhere. Bright crimson. Erupting with the anger of Vesuvius awoken from deep slumber.

It was like a murder scene, for ants.

Reflecting back on all the insurance success I had today, I called my disability insurance provider.

This was my chance. My third claim.

Denied.

Photo by Jilbert Ebrahimi on Unsplash

There are times when I truly believe that Mr Charles Darwin is trying to channel himself directly through me, to hand out his prestigious award to those most deserving.

While driving home in the shadow enshrouded rain today, it reminded me of a time where I almost bestowed it, in such a manner, upon a man a few short years back.

I can recall clearly how he was clad in a stylish, full track suit, emanating the loveliest shade of midnight black, perfectly suited to help him be at one with dark and dusk, like long-lost, then found, lovers firmly entangled in each others arms in a pit of tarry molasses.

His outfit was brilliantly accompanied by an oversized matte black umbrella which was surely helpful in maintaining the dryness of his perfectly appointed clothing, in the heavy, tumbling rain.

The problem was that in his well-dressed stupor, he was walking with his back to traffic, which in and of itself, isn’t often an issue, unless one chooses to do so in a live traffic lane, besides the perfectly empty sidewalk.

Yes, he was actually in the lane.

The lane I happened to be driving in.

All I can say is he should be happy that I had recently sold a kidney and had completed all my automotive servicing, including advanced brake maintenance, on my well appointed 1998 Honda Civic.

And that I have heavy-footed, yet cat-like reflexes.

For the record, dear reader, my brakes worked awesomely. As did my horn.

He, on the other hand, likely had to invest in some new underpants.

Photo by Konstantin Planinski on Unsplash

Some lessons bear dissemination, no matter the personal cost, no matter the risk of stigma. For this reason, I do not take publication of the following lightly.

It’s been almost three years now and the passage of time has chipped and chiseled away enough of the encapsulating tendrils of shame, and shone enough liberating light on the dark secret of my embarrassment, so that I may finally share with you, dear reader, what is arguably my greatest humiliation.

I share this so that others, like you, may be assuaged of similar ills, so you may live a life free from what you too have hidden and buried deep inside your being.

But a small part of me also takes this brave step, exposing my vulnerability, to cast off the shackles that have chained me in place, frozen by the events of that day.

Head North Young Man

It was a brisk day, late December 2015. Night had fallen and the car was loaded, with both fuel and my suitcase.

It was road trip time.

Roughly 400 km of travel was on the docket. Northward.

After work, I went off to pick up my travel companion. She too was heading in the direction from whence Santa was starting his journey of bolstering the retail economy.

It was our second time meeting and she didn’t know me as well as you do, dear reader. But I suppose the events of that night would soon change that.

The travels started as they typically do with two people unknown to each other, with friendly conversation and questions.

As the kilometers passed by, engrossed in delightful conversation with said travel companion, our protagonist soon realized that the needle on the powerful gas tank gauge was slowly making it’s way down all the markings.

Like everything else, it was no match for gravity either. Down, down, down.

Quarter tank.

At this point, you know the type of person you are.

Knowing the unquenchable thirst of his ride and the distance yet to cover, one insistent thought rose up.

I’ll stop at the next gas station to fill up.

And that was our hero’s plan but the universe had others.

Two gas stations along the way, closed. Lights out. Dark and cold. Abandoned to the growing night.

So we continued Northward, our pace on the bustling highway slowing to the long ago completed driver’s education instilled beacon of fuel economy: 90 km/hr.

The kilometers whizzed by and nary a gas station appeared. 10. 15. 20. More of the nothingness. A growing weariness and unease to accompany the eerie stillness that surrounded us.

What is this desolation?

The companion, a non-driver was unperturbed. From her vantage point in the passenger seat, all was as it should be. But that’s because she couldn’t see the ominous orange glow of the low fuel gauge suddenly flicker and light up the console. Like the ocean tides, it came and went with the cresting of every hill and subsequent coasting descent. Until on one pass, it stood fast. Glaring at me. Solid. Unwavering. A gauntlet I knew I couldn’t pick up.

This is when I knew we were in trouble.

Using the understanding of my car’s capabilities and the distance to our destination, I knew we were short. The numbers, they would not match. I couldn’t reconcile them. Abject failure for the son of an accountant.

Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light

– Hotel California, The Eagles

Within a few minutes of driving with the solid gas light on, an oasis appeared up on the right. A gas station. Salvation was ours.

I pulled in and realized the pumps were designed to be paid inside. I strode confidently to the door, smug in my sense of accomplishment, a spring in my step, my travel companion none the wiser to our previous predicament.

The locked door.

I pulled on the door handle. It didn’t budge. I pulled harder and inadvertently revisited Newton’s Third Law. It pulled back just as hard. Nothing. All those years of dead lifting and squatting and farmer’s carries. Useless. I couldn’t even open a simple door. Not just any door, but the door to salvation.

If my brute force and power wouldn’t work, I would change tactics. Brains over brawn. I knocked on the door. Repeatedly. Still no entrance was granted. I began to yell my entreaties into the cold, dark night. Until I could yell no more. My voice silenced by despair.

I stared longingly inside the brightly lit store.

And still I was to remain outside, my credit still safely tucked inside my credit card. The fuel, still safely tucked inside the buried fuel tank.

As I trudged dejectedly back to my car, I put on a bright face and told my companion:

“We’ll stop at the next one.”

So we continued North. I sat there driving with steady pace and controlled acceleration, my mind racing, doing the mental arithmetic, the seed of worst case scenario germinating deep inside my cold, calloused soul, sprouting small growing shoots of now audible despair into my conscious mind.

If we didn’t find fuel fast, we would be 20 km shy of our destination, from civilization. That type of walking would be way too catabolic for me. I had to think of the muscle.

I kept steady pressure on the accelerator, with no sudden thrusts or spurts, keeping an even steady rhythm, hoping to minimize fuel consumption. But the gauge dipped lower.

I saw the sign.

As the apprehension grew within me, I saw a sign with the name of a town I’d been to the summer before. They had a gas station there. It was 1 km away. The math worked.

I eased the car gently off the highway on to the unlit, undivided secondary Northern highway, a large weight lifted off my broad shoulders.

We drove through this narrow country highway, buttressed by barren, darkened forest on either side, my eyes glued both ahead of me and to the odometer. The meters ticked by the 100. Soon, they continued by the kilometers. The sign had been a lie.

We were nearing the end of tank, if my calculations were correct.

“So how good do you think search parties are?”

The unspoken thought went through my mind when I realized that not only would we be without fuel, but we would be without communication – there was no cell phone signal.

Surprisingly, my travel companion seemed fairly calm, being stuck in a forest with a guy she had basically just met, in the middle of nowhere, with a car quickly running out of gas, and no cell phone to call for help or tell those expecting you why you likely wouldn’t make in in time.

Maybe she felt I was well prepared, as I’d just told her about the emergency bag that I kept in the trunk. This bag has moved with me for years and contained emergency candles, heat blanket, extra clothes. We could hunker down for the night if absolutely required and survive like heroes. The snickers bars and pop tarts still in their original 2008 containers. I was just hoping I had the right one in there, and hadn’t switched it out with the one with the extra passports and cash.

GAS STATION!

A flash of light caught my eye from the depths of the forest – it was a string of Christmas lights strung across the front awning of what appeared to be a darkened trading post, which brought its soft glow to the two gas pumps that adorned the front.

Traveling at the speed that I was, in the state of utter panic that I was experiencing, the disconnect between my mind seeing the outlines of the pumps and my conscious self realizing I should stop, took a few moments. In that time, I overshot the entrance by about 120 meters.

No big deal, I’ll just U-turn. On this absolutely pitch black road. In the middle of nowhere. In the depths of a forest.

And that was the moment that I ran out of gas.

My car, and the two of us inside, perpendicular to the highway. Stalled. Done completely. Not even fumes to finish the turn.

My math had been right. Virtually to the kilometer, out of gas.

Panic levels hit epic proportions. We were on a secondary highway, perpendicular to any potential traffic, enshrouded by darkness, just on the other side of a curve. We’d be invisible to any car that would be hurtling down these roads.

You’ll have to steer.

Clarity came suddenly. Like it can only do when imminent death or grievous bodily harm is staring your down. This is what my 20+ years of physical training was all about. The hours in the gym. The repetitions. All the blood, sweat, and tears. The day had come. I would have to push the car. And fast.

Remember, my travel companion was a non-driver.

And here, in desperate times, she earned her license. She had to steer as I pushed. The roadway, however, was not a simple one, with a fairly steep drop off bordering a very narrow unpaved shoulder. Lucky, the car being fuel free, was much lighter than I expected. As we weaved the 120 meters to the entrance of the trading post, my thighs were on fire, but my heart was light.

The entrance to salvation was gravel and so the car could no longer be pushed – the coefficient of friction just not in our favour.

I walked the last 10 meters to the pump.

“BUT WHYYYYYYYYY?!?”

My heart sank. Affixed to the nearest pump was a simple piece of cardboard with a crushing message poorly scrawled in thick black sharpie:

Sorry. Out of gas.

In the distance, we saw a lantern swinging in the darkness. A man called out a greeting and stated the obvious.

“Looks like you’re out of gas! We don’t got any either!”

In the end, we realized the very happy man, with a that special lilt in his voice, had a jerrycan he kept in his shed, which he allowed me to graciously purchase from him.

We screwed on the spout top, and tilted it up towards my thirsty ride.

It was not to be. The universe toying with us again. The nozzle was too big. Size did matter. And in this case, the small opening just couldn’t accommodate the girth.

As luck would have it, he rummaged around his shed and found another spout, a smaller more compact one.

It fit the car, but was too small for the can. It would have to do. Equal amounts of fuel poured down the can and splashed my pants as did enter the car.

I didn’t care at this point. Heroes never do.

We would not have to spend the night in the forest in the car in the cold. We would not have to eat stale, 7 year old pop tarts and snickers for sustenance. And we could make our destination.

And here, almost 3 years to the day later, I traveled the same route last night. On the route, I saw all the same gas stations. I saw the same highway exit sign.

I made peace. Again. As I have for the past few years.

That is what has allowed me to share this with you today.

What allows me to discharge the burdensome shame and guilt I have carried all these years.

It’s only now that I’m able to tell you that I’m still with the same cell phone provider.

Even though they have spotty Northern Ontario coverage.

Photo by Sara Farshchi on Unsplash

Remember that time when your dual smoke/carbon monoxide detector starts beeping a 5:43 AM to warn you about low battery power?

And that time, at 5:46 AM, when you finally can’t take the shrill, incessant screeching anymore and rummage for a 9V battery, in your sharps cutlery drawer in the dark?

And also, remember that time, around 5:47 AM, when, in your groggy state, you are compelled by some unknown force to lick the new 9V battery to make sure it actually has power?

Or that time at 5:55 AM, 3 years and six days from when you first wrote the above, that you had the exact same thing happen?

And all you could think about is – 3 years and 6 days: wow, it does keep going and going – while waiting for your tongue to stop tingling?

From licking the battery, not a knife.

Ring.

There goes the phone. It’s a work call.

Lucky for me I have my work phone set up on my mobile. The joys of VOIP technology.

I answer in my usual suave biz phone answering voice, making sure to drop my vocal projections the requisite 24 tones and 2 octaves*.

There’s a bright, cheery voice that responds, a faint accenting discernible as it caresses the contours of her words. She sounds so pleasant and happy. I have no doubt she made the call with a wan smile on her countenance, the kind that would stretch across not only her face but across the ether through WiFi and evoke the same response in my mirror neurons.

I could faintly see my face reflected back at me on my computer screen. I was smiling back at the caller. This was going to be a great conversation. I knew it.

She introduces herself. It was a biz to biz call. She was reaching out to help me help my clients by offering “complete wellness solutions” support for them, while also helping my business at the same time by allowing me to increase my offerings, revenues, and profits.

Unfortunately, with her introductory spiel, my mind shut off almost instantly and I missed the name of her company. I did catch that her company helps many businesses just like mine with helping their customers. Win-win. For her. For me. For my clients.

I tried to politely decline, and offered a gentle out, an unfettered egress with an eye to sustaining dignity. For her. For me. For humanity.

As with many sales calls, I assume she was searching for the 7 no’s. That was only one. So she soldiered on. She dangled the bit.

SHE DANGLED THE BIT.

How could I not take it? I couldn’t help myself. It’s like she knew the words to use. The triggers. The catalyst.

Detox.

Her complete wellness solution offered a detox that would help my clients improve their outcomes. I was drawn in. I needed to know more. I had to know more. Curiosity piqued.

“You said ‘detox’, correct?”

I couldn’t help it. I dangled the bit right back at her. She chomped like I knew she would. Par Referret.

“Yes, our complete wellness solution offers 7 and 14 day detoxes to detoxify the liver and colon from all the built up toxins.”

“Great, could you tell me exactly what toxins your detox removes?”

“So the cleanse is a 7 or 14 day detox that removes all of the toxins that have build up in the liver and colon…”

I interrupted before she could delineate the specifics of the cleanse: “No, I was asking specifically what toxins does your detox remove from the body?”

“Yes, it removes toxins from the body, it detoxifies the liver and the colon in just 7 or 14 days…”

“Ahhh, that’s not what I asked, I’m curious to know which toxins specifically the detox removes.”

“Yes, it removes all the toxins that have build up over time…”

“I hear what you’re saying but my question is what is the specific substance, the toxic substance, that your detox actually removes…Is it lead? Mercury? Heavy metals? What are the actual toxins?”

“Oh, yes, all of them. From your liver and your colon.”

“All of them? Do you have research that supports your statements?” I ask incredulously.

“Yes, we have a lot of science that proves our detox works. It cleanses the liver and colon. It’s scientifically proven.”

“Well, would you be able to send me this information so I can do my due diligence and research? And if I feel that this is an appropriate offering for my clients I will get in touch with you.”

The call is coming to its end.

I give her my email, and now I wait patiently for the research to land inside my inbox, (so close to inbox zero with only 3 at present: one bill payment reminder which will be removed once the bill is paid, one another business opportunity meeting request from a random on LinkedIn, and the last an email newsletter from James Clear, who is totally worth checking out).

We part ways.

And there on my computer screen remains my countenance, still reflected back at me in the same way it started. Broad smile, nay, grin. Pearly whites so pearly.

I hope, in the same way that she left me with such a joyous state, that I too conveyed, through the ether and WiFi, the same feelings to her, and that her wan smile remained fixed.

*I totally Googled this music theory stuff and I’m pretty sure I butchered it. If anyone wants to correct me, please do.

Photo by Christin Hume on Unsplash

Unspeakable tragedy struck about 6 months ago, of which I had no choice but to speak of. This was my entreaty for help. In it’s entirety. Unedited. My pain and anguish bright and blinding. Just like the light.

Please Jim. Do the needful…

---

Dearest Jim,

I’ve had a pair of Stingray sunglasses (MJ-103-10) since January 2011, when they were bought for me as a gift in Maui while at a friend’s wedding by my longtime girlfriend. Who is now my longtime ex. As an aside, she also bought a different pair of your beautiful shades for herself, though time has, much like the persistent Pacific Ocean waves working the beautiful sandy beaches of Wailea, eroded the sharpness and clarity of my memory and I cannot, for the life of me, remember her name.

In the intervening years, my Stingrays have served me exceedingly well.

The frames have stood up to time, solid and unspoiled, still snugly and lovingly caressing the contours of my ageing and altered cranium (please don’t misread this as balding, that’s the farthest thing from the state of my head as I currently have long, luxurious locks flowing to my buttocks). The lenses have remained true and clear, the vision crisp. These shades have been well cared for. They find daily respite in their original hatched yellow case when not in use, like the opposite of a vampire who spends the daytime sheltered in a coffin, that is where they spend their nights. But in the case, not the coffin.

Until yesterday.

Being a beautiful day, I removed them from their case so that they could do their duty and protect my peepers. I stepped outside and, unlike those who did not have their Stingrays on, my eyes were not assaulted. I did not have to squeeze my lids shut. I could see.

I took a few steps in my intended direction then realized, while it was sunny out, it was very windy. And it was a chilly wind. And that I would need to go back inside and put on a hoodie.

So I did.

Stepping inside after having been outside in the bright sunshine altered my light perception. It was darker inside now. Harder to see. So I flipped up my Stingrays on top of my head as I’ve done hyperbolically a million times. I grabbed my hoodie from the closet and bent to put it on the bench.

That was my mistake. The error of ages. Bending.

It was as if time stopped. Or rather, slowed down.

I could feel the Stingrays dislodge.

Gravity. Always gravity. Of the situation. Of the Earth.

Though my reflexes have been described as cat-like, almost exclusively by myself, they fell ninja-like. And we all know cats are no match for ninjas.

A small clatter.

Phew, I thought. They didn’t break. It was a small fall from a small distance – I’m not a tall guy, so me being bent seductively at the waist significantly reduced the distance even further.

I put on my hoodie and picked up my Stingrays from the floor.

My heart sank. The left lens, a spider crack to go along with my recent ant infestation. This time, the ant pucks won’t work to solve my problem. Antacide is of no use to me here.

Sadness. Until I googled Maui Jim Lens Repair.

And here I am, seeking your assistance.

Can you save my Stingrays?

I’ve attached a photo of the injury. Be warned, it is graphic in nature and intended for mature audiences.

Yours, with squinting eyes, blinded by the light,

Wordonist
[phone number redacted]

ps. My ex is a wonderful person, I totally remember her name, and we still get along great. But I can’t remember which Maui Jim’s she has. But I do remember they were beautiful.

Kids, they know how to make friends. Give them a few minutes and best buddies forever. 

But why is it so hard to make new friends as an adult?

On a recent drive in to work, I tried so hard to make friends with the driver behind me.

Unlike my previously detailed experience with the random stranger driver and being thankful, this one didn’t turn out the same way.

I was sitting there at the light waiting to make a left turn as he pulled up behind me. I know this because I could see his fancy car careening towards me with gusto in my rear view mirror.

He also let me know he had arrived by honking his hello. Just a nice long drawn out howdy. Much like those air horns at the sporting events. You’re probably making the sound in your head right now. Or maybe even out loud. 

So I waved back my greeting.

As he looked away almost shamefully, I thought to myself, as I completed the left turn after the pedestrian was safely out of the crosswalk, “maybe I should have used four more fingers on my wave?”

Photo by Church of the King on Unsplash