This is That Fresh Feeling

It was thick. But it was the charming version of the accent instead of the twangy one. Friday afternoon, I was delighted.

“Ma’am. Do you have a place to park the car in case it’s rainin’ at the time of repair?”

“Err. Uh. Ye. I think I…It’s Southern California. It won’t rain.”

* * * 

I’m a light sleeper. And, even before the first sliver of sunlight would have made it over the hills, I was awake.

For the weeks leading up to this particular Monday, I had slept even lighter…A phone’s buzz, a bark, wind battering a window, the sound of footsteps shuffling away were too much. But this day, all that wouldn’t have mattered; it was coming down hard. A minute passes before my brain speeds up enough to acknowledge the odds. 

At lunch, I was eating my words. The Accent was on the phone again, “We can’t fix your windsheild if it’s already wet, Ma’am.” 

“Indeed,” I think first, then “unlikely.”

* * * 

Pathetic fallacy is such a motherfucker but rain has a way of washing things away. Tuesday, in the precious early hours, it felt like spring. And I was up in a mountain staring the 20-odd miles down to the ocean through the temporarily crisp December air. 

I get a call. It’s the Accent. Someone was on their way to me. Could I be home in 20? I think about the the tiny stellate scissure in my windsheild. Sure. 20. No problem. On the way down the mountain, I see the spindley legs of the crack making their way across the windsheild. I wonder if a little resin will be enough to keep it from zig-zagging its way across the glass, fracturing the whole thing one day. Seems like magic. Or maybe just bullshit. 

* * * 

At 5:56 am, blue light creeps in and I’m awake for it. The right side of the country has forgotten, again, and the little bell dings. “Assholes,” I think. But I’m already up, digging through crumpled sweaters and jeans.

And, they know it.

A few minutes later, even this early, the 10 is a parking lot. Traffic creeps to the west, a groaning catapillar of red lights moving through the smoggy half-light. If I could just get to the 405.

* * *

Less than a half-mile away, crossing Valley, you can’t see the water yet. The land by the ocean undulates. But, I have enough sun light now and enough time to notice the tiny streak still cutting through the windshield. While I roll down the final hill towards Ocean Drive, I look back in my rearview and see the white stucco front of a tiny, corner restaurant. I have to smile despite myself. At least I’m home again.