I was grumped, as grumped as a wet cat, locked out, night falling, a hard freeze due, and 'yotes on my trail. Was it the weather? I'd like to blame the weather. It was Tuesday. Gray. Cold. Dismal. It had been Tuesday all week, Maybe it was being housebound with healing-Pat. After the Samurai-surgeon attack the hospital had stapled her back together and said, 'here's your wife, just like new. "Right." I took the groaning lump home, tenderness my middle name, steering carefully around every Maineish pothole. For days I was hovering, pain pills, juice, cheerful countenance, my entire arsenal in play. And she was getting better. No lack of trying; up and walking from day one, but maybe it wore on me just a tiny bit. Pat had the grit, but I wasn't turning into a pearl. When they cut me in half and harvest assorted pieces for 'further study' may I be as stalwart as she.
Except for two forays to machine shop class, with my cell phone clipped on an ear lobe, I hadn't ventured further than the store for a fortnight. I didn't trust her to be on her own for long. She might put on a disc of Peruvian flute music and start clog dancing in an Oxy induced euphoria. Drugs do that to her. Sometimes the hours just hang like ripe grapes; any plucking was going to be consensual and well-advised.
That fool Jim C. had dropped me an email, in the midst of all this, that asked if I were as crazy as he was. Shit - I hoped not! He had found another Flather lathe, and it was right up my alley, he said. Only 125 miles away and with a buy-it-now price not to be sneered at. What? I looked at the email again and shook my head. I had just disimpacted my shop by moving several machines into the garage to be sold, and hadn't sold them. Now winter was knocking and the garage was a mess. Almost all the other woodworking machines had migrated to the basement. The shop had been looking good until I brought the Freeport Flather home. Add in a third Flather and I'd start feeling as stuffed as Johnny Wad's girl friend. When does a hobby become a metastatic growth? When do I stop with these strange metaphors?
I had been intrigued enough with Jim's find to start a small correspondence with the seller. A couple of inane questions drifted into the aether from my end; a move that would salve my conscience when the b-i-n price was met and the Flather suddenly disappeared, no longer a troubling blip on my radar. I was sure that was what would happen; someone would surely leap at the chance to own beauty incarnate. I could tell myself that I had been considering the lathe, seriously so, but it obviously wasn't the right time. The seller and I wrote back and forth a few times and the Flather stayed there, hung out on ebay for all the world to see, like permanently stained undies on the clothesline, taunting me day after day about my unclean habits. I gave up. The gods wanted me to have this machine. Fate's fickle, freaking finger was aimed at me. Between an opening bid of $100 and a b-i-n price of $125 I had no choice. I closed the auction and asked the seller if he could hold it a few days until I could get down there.
On Tuesday Mr. Atmosphere on NPR said it would clear for the next two days. The return of sunshine gladdened me like a trickle of rum warming my throat. I wrote the seller and said we should do the pickup on Wednesday or Thursday. No reply. His negative feedback had been a bit troubling initially. A few comments from irate sellers and buyers, comments that offered the reader several choices. Obvious question: Was he less than trustworthy? Probably not; he had lots of good feedback, too. It is just that the few bad ones catch the eye and cause a slight stumble as you put the money in the mail. I had done it anyway. Sent a Postal Money Order to him, figured he was just a little disorganized, or maybe had a streak of bellicosity that shined when he felt crossed. But still, no answer to the latest email. I tried the phone number he had sent me and got a woman who didn't speak English. Uhh-ohh! What have I done? Another email left my toaster headed his way. Then he wrote back, apologized for the delay and said noon on Saturday. I agreed. The hell with sunny days.
There I was on the road in V10 Thomas listening to his engine suck up that very expensive gasoline at an alarming rate, maybe 200 yards of visibility in a grey fog all around me, and a steady drizzle that I would have called an Orgeon-mist in another lifetime challenging my aging wiper blades, handing money to toll booth tenders and sipping my Mason jar of coffee packed from home. I was on the road with Mapquest's best advice at hand. The radio played oldies and I plugged along south. Pat had given me the go-ahead to spend 6 hours on my own.
All went well until I got off the highway in Salem, New Hampster. Suddenly the distances that Mapquest was telling me about weren't making sense. And Hampshire Road, which I was to take, didn't exist; all I could find was Hampshire Street. I took it in a spirit of determined antagonism. Miles and miles later I stopped in a little country store and asked for directions. Surprisingly, I wasn't too far off. I went back a few miles, took the advised sharp right at the yield sign, and thought I had finally gotten straight. More country roads with houses here and there. Looking at Mapquest's instructions once again I found that the road I was now on would change names a few times, even changing back to its first name now and then, and New Hampster, like Maine, doesn't budget for street signs. It is part of the charm of the Northeast. Another little store wrapped in autumn-fired foliage, and I found that I was only a half mile off. The gods really did want me to have this machine.
An entire family sat around in a triple garage watching T.V. and having Budwiesers and ciggies for lunch. A little kid was eating Cheerios. It was the cleanest garage I have ever seen. The Flather was practically the only other thing in it. Pete, the seller, and his dad immediately started giving me instructions as to backing in under the chain hoist. Pete had his wrenches out and had already pulled the headstock bolts. Other than moving the truck I did little but watch. These guys were good. I'd brought pipes along and in a few minutes the lathe was rolling up Thomas' bed. Chucks, legs, tailstock, headstock, all the accoutrements, were stacked around the main body. I have had folk help me load before, but never with this speed and skill. When the tailgate was snapped shut and I was ready to leave the mom offered me a Bud. I thanked her and declined, saying that this would be the one time in my life I got stopped.
Pete's dad had given me explicit instructions on how to get back on the road. It was probably at the second turn, that I did twice because it seemed suspicious the first time, that I blew it. After that I stayed on roads that announced they were either Eastbound or Northbound. I knew I would either come to Maine or the Atlantic given time. An hour later I was back on 95 just south of Portsmouth and headed home. There would be a small crisis at home, compounded of pain and lonliness, but it sure beat the hell out of New Hampster.
