It had been an awesome two weeks in Tucson. I'd been able to pack in a tremendous amount of work, and had not only wrapped up a phase of project exactly on the original projected completion date, but had proceeded to tick off a list of other wish list things for the system that the company had entrusted to me. There had been all manner of horrible patches of code that were causing miserable inefficiencies for the growing list of editors and authors using it.
I knew that it meant I'd have plenty of slack going forward in the next few weeks. But my mind simply couldn't slow down. Unable to slow down from the work frenzy, I'd entered into some kind of workaholic mania, jackhammering up sections of the system and refactoring them all in one evening to suit myself, completely under my own direction and authorization, and checking the code into source control. I'd even had time to perform some fine stitching of the using interface, the kind of stylistic garnishing that usually outside my purview, and which no one would possibly expect me to do.
My soul seemed to be crying out for the relief of the road. I wanted nothing more than to pack up and get going. But there was one problem---I was stuck for the next few days.
On Friday evening, after coming back from dinner, while walking in back of the car, I had noticed that the left rear shock absorber was hanging down beside the muffler. I knew immediately that it was almost certainly a consequence of the incident on Grant Street. I hadn't gotten away as cleanly as I thought.
I crawled under the car to inspect it. It appeared that the shock itself was intact, as was the mount. It appeared that the bolt had simply snapped, perhaps from one of the many potholes in Tucson (there are more than one would think), having been weakened by the accident.
I always like to take some kind of immediate action in these cases, just to get the ball rolling. I Googled Big O Tires, since I'd recently bought a set of radials there and wanted to have them rotated anyway. I called the nearest one and explained the situation. They said they'd be able to take care of it, most likely, but not until Monday when they could get the parts. That meant I'd be stuck in Tucson at least two more days.
Stuck--yes. Two days was nothing, but when it is not by choice, it takes on a different tenor. All day Sunday, between poking on yet more things on the system for work, I paced around my hotel room like a caged cheetah, trying to distract myself with episodes of NCIS that I had already seen three times in the last couple months.
After sunset, I grew apprehensive about the car, wondering if maybe there were more serious issues that I hadn't seen. I questioned myself over having not filed a claim yet. Maybe I should go ahead and do that, in case I needed to shell out more for undiscovered critical repairs.
For a while I contemplated fixing the bolt myself, and even called the local BMW dealership. The parts department reported that the bolt was minimal in cost, but they would have to order it. It would be there on Wednesday at the earliest. They wouldn't or couldn't give me any info on the bolt itself. I could take the other one off to compare, but that might turn into a fiasco. In a desparate pinch, it would have been an option, but with time and money, fixing it myself didn't seem like the thing to do.
So I decided that it would be Big O on Monday, as planned. On Sunday night, expecting perhaps that I might be stuck in Tucson for multiple days while the car was in the shop, I unloaded most of gear from the trunk, dropping it in a heap by the door.
On Monday morning, I drove to the shop with great apprehension driven by uncertainty. How long until I get going again? How much would it cost? Would I have to track down Abdul (the guy who hit me) and shake his girlfriend's insurance info out of him?
The friendly manager at Big O listened to my situation and then put the car up on the lift. I could see that almost immediately the technicians began trying out bolts from their stash in a drawer, to see which one might work. A couple minutes later the manager came back and told me that it turned out that both rear shocks were leaking and needed replacing. He showed me where the fluid was leaking down.
This was not a consequence of the accident---just routine maintenance that I had somewhat expected, given how much I carry in the trunk while on the road. He gave me a quote--seventy dollars for the pair plus labor. "Go for it," I told him eagerly.
I sat in a nearby donut shop for the forty-five minutes and then came back just as they were finishing. The car was already sitting in the parking lot, its back end riding high from the replacements. The total bill was 145 dollars---pretty much nothing. They charged me eight bucks for the bolt, which they had to special order for immediate delivery. That turned out to be the total cost so far out of pocket for the accident.
Driving away down Alvernon Avenue, I almost felt like taking to the road immediately. It was bright sunny day, perfect for driving. My contact colleague in New York had said he wanted to chat the next day about the next phase of the project. There was hardly anything do until then.
But I'd already paid for another night at the Super 8. I'd have to think of how I might kill another day in Tucson. My aunt had told me about a favorite diner that her son and daughter-in-law liked, so I went there and ordered my usual of three scrambled eggs and a side of bacon. She also mentioned a favorite local used bookstore chain, so I went there and perused their foreign language section looking for verb books I might not yet own.
Then in the late afternoon, finally able to let go of work for a few hours, I sat down and hammered out five blog entries in a row while reclining on my hotel bed. It's good to be in Tucson.
Ah heck, I just remembered about the laundry I need to do.
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