The Fix It Man in Florida - IP

The women in my life don’t know where I live.  Mama called me this morning, woke me up, damn it, to ask me to “fix the problem light in her car.”  Saturdays are my only sleep in days and she woke me up for that.  Mama, I said, I can’t see the problem light so how the hell do you expect me to fix it?  I’m in Florida, remember?  She goes on to describe it and I figure out it’s the TPS light.  I tell her she needs to put air in her tires to make the problem light go away.  Also, where’s her husband?  Why isn’t he there to fix it?  Your father is in Alabama, she informs me, coming back Sunday.  Well.  He’s in Alabama and I’m in Florida, so . . . ?  Tell her how to put air in the tires, she says and I inform her to use an air compressor, if she’s got one and if she doesn’t then go to a gas station as they usually have one but she’ll have to pay, better have some change.  Mama doesn’t know if she has an air compressor because she doesn’t know what is an air compressor.  I tell her I’ll call her back in about half an hour.  I splash cold water on my face, brush my teeth, brew some coffee, feed the rabbit, have a smoke and call her back.  

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        Smoked outside in my backyard wearing only trousers; yep, it’s that comfortable in Florida while the rest of the country is getting its ass kicked by a bitch of a winter storm.  We’ll be praying for y’all down here.

    Mama, I say to her, open the trunk.  I say this because if she has an air compressor her husband would have put it in her trunk.  She opens it.  It’s empty.  Well, mama, check the backyard shed.  She checks it but doesn’t know what she’s looking for and after maybe twenty minutes I tell her that she needs to go to a gas station and use its air pump.  It’ll have a sign on it:  AIR.  But how much air does she put in it?  Open your driver side door, mama, there’s a chart that will show you the PSI for each tire.  What’s PSI?  Doesn’t matter, mama, just pay attention to the number.  If you can’t figure it out ask one of the employees to help you.  Why should she do that, she wants to know, when I can just stay one the phone with her and give her step-by-step directions?  No, mama, just call me when you get to the gas station.  Drink my coffee.  Give the rabbit some cookies.  Change the snakes’ heat lights from night time to day time.  Toss the tarantula a couple of mealworms.  Here comes the callback:  Hi, Thad, it’s mama (I know it is, why does she say that all the time?) and I’m here at the gas station but I don’t see anything that has AIR written on it.  Mama, go inside and ask if they have an air pump.  She does and she says Hi, good morning, my son says I need air in my tires and he wants to know if you have an air pump.  Oh . . . Thad, he says they have one and he’s going to show me where it is and how to use it.  

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        Thank you, Jesus.

    A couple hours later sissy calls wanting me to “turn on the stupid generator” because the winter storm has knocked out power in her neighborhood.  Sissy, you do understand that I’m in Florida?  And where’s your husband?  He’s at work.  He won’t like being disturbed at work by stupid generator questions while he’s doing important Pentagon business.  Well, sissy, you’ve got two grown sons who actually live in your vicinity, ask one of them.  She already asked and they don’t know.  But . . . but how does she think I know?  I don’t even know what kind of generator she has:  gas, electric, solar?  Hell, I didn’t know she has a generator.  

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        Ain’t seen sissy in going on four years now.  But she calls me up thinking I know how her house is outfitted.  She’s been doing this all her life.  Calling me when she has a flat tire, when there’s a “nasty bug thing” in her yard or, this one time, when she was watching a hockey game and didn’t understand why Team USA removed its goalie, all kinds of shit all sort of reasons random and out of the blue.

    Figured out the stupid generator is electric and eventually figured out how to make the stupid thing generate.  She says, Okay, Thad, thank you, we’re alright now.  Are you alright?  I remind her again that I’m in Florida, of course I’m alright, it’s 60F here, I got the a/c running, I’m lounging around bare-chested.  I got fans circulating the cool air.  Hell, I might turn off the a/c and open the windows.  Why?  Because I am in Florida!