“Hello, this is David.”
“Yeah this is Lee, from Triple A,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. “It’s not the Freon, it’s the compressor.”
Compressor. A word I never want to hear from a person talking about my car.
“Looks like it’s going to be about nine hundred dollars.” I could tell by his voice that he felt bad about the number. He was just the messenger. No use in being mad at him.
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
I took a sip of Green Jasmine tea. I was sitting at a Starbucks around the corner from the Triple A, working on lines and hoping for the best.
Nine hundred dollars. I had it. That was the good news. But I had just spent four hundred dollars the day before on an eye exam, contacts, and glasses, because, well, I’m forty and can’t see so that’s what I have to do and screw this being an adult thing it is one hundred percent for the birds.
I took a breath and tried to be positive. At least it’s getting fixed. At least you have a car. At least you don’t root for the Cleveland Browns. My attempts were moot, however. I threw away my tea and picked up my bag.
I stood at the corner of East North Street and Pleasantburg, waiting for the light to turn.
I put a lot of pressure on my off weeks, the weeks between my treatments. I want to get ahead on all of my work, I want to exercise, I want to have Instagram worthy nights, and dinners that are perfectly healthy. For the most part I do all those things. But the reason I get chemo is to wipe out my cancer, which will allow me to participate fully in life. That means sunsets. That means days at the beach. That also means fixing compressors. And getting new lenses for my glasses.
The light turned green and the walking sign came up. I walked into the Triple A and Lee asked me how I wanted to proceed.
“Let’s get her fixed,” I said as I pulled out my debit card and inserted the chip. A little harder than normal. Just to let the machine know I wasn’t happy about it.
It was done. I was a grown up. My car will be ready in the morning.