I was going to tell you an interesting story about a mean bird, a four-foot Nerf gun, and a fruitless attempt at channeling the wisdom of Renee Zellweger.
The bird lived; the Nerf gun cleaned up nicely; and Zellweger’s quote has yet to be Googled, but I know it was brilliant and timely, the spirit of it was dead on, and yet I declined the advice.
But before I could fill in the blanks on that startlingly brilliant vignette, another thing happened.
My Bubs, my beautiful Bubs, has an instinctive need to lock the truck doors before exiting the vehicle. While I appreciate his kindly protecting our maybe-valuables while we spend time outside the confines of a Ram truck, sometimes…well, sometimes.
Yesterday I stopped for gas. Bubs stopped for an Icy drink and perhaps a hot dog, if they were indeed spinning in oil across that roller-dog thing.
I was watching his safe travel across the parking lot while the pump put gas into my car.
Once my son was safely upon the sidewalk of the local convenience store, I turned to put my credit card back into my wallet.
I guess Bubs and I are all about protecting things.
But the door was locked, blocking my re-entry into the driver seat.
No matter how many times I pulled on the door handle, it would not let me in.
Three times, four times; denied.
I could see through the tinted window: my wallet, my phone, my purse, my son’s brand new book from the morning’s book fair, and my keys, sitting lovingly and ready in the bucket of my seat.
Only the ending click of the gas pump startled me back to life.
There are no pay phones, yet twelve thousand walked around the 7-11 while I stood rooted to one place, trying to recall any single number to contact any single person I knew who could help me in my new emergency situation.
And I was coming up empty.
Adrenaline took over, I rushed into the convenience store to look for my Bubs by the hot dog rolling thing, and he was not there. In fact, he was sucking on a cola icy drink while holding the side door for an overall-clad gentleman. He’s such a good boy.
Except for the locking the door thing. There’s that.
Suffice it to sum up:
7-11 doesn’t allow long distance calls.
Neither does Subway.
Not everyone likes that you ask to pleasepleaseplease borrow their cell phone.
Library patrons frequent 7-11 and are kind enough to help, though the efforts prove fruitless and now I owe him a couple dozen cookies to repay his kindness and replace his own melting icy drink.
Subway gentlemen are willing to offer their personal phone for help.
Fortunately, I could remember my own dad’s cell number and he was kind enough to start a text chain of frantic needs for immediacy and chocolate.
And last but not least, firemen rock.
Though I was able to start a Help Me Pleasepleaseplease chain, Subway gentleman prompted a secondary 911 by pointing across the street to a firehouse full of men who “aren’t supposed to, but I bet they will.”
Thus did Bubs and I find ourselves running across a busy street toward help.
And help rushed out the door, into a big red truck, and dashed back down the street toward my stranded-in-pump-six truck while Bubs and I loped after them.
The firemen had already unsheathed their tools and started on both sides of that vehicle.
Five minutes later, truck open, I was taking orders for treats and rewards and Bubs and I were on the road to the local grocery for Rocky Road and Homemade Vanilla.
Can’t thank people enough for their kindness, and can’t wait another minute to scroll through my phone, write down all my contact numbers, and sew the list into my bra.
It’s gonna be a busy day.