Dear Debbie,
You have known for quite some time that I intended to begin a blog serial dedicated to you, my mentor and friend, in which I would chronicle some of my adventures in higher education. I began this adventure while sitting sideways in an old blue high-back chair across the desk from you, and for the last six years you've been there with me, listening to my ramblings and laughing at my attempts at comedy. I wanted to wait until I had a job to begin writing this, but my fingers are tired of texting and I am about three phone calls over my limit for the day and so now, thanks to the webernet, you are obliged to continue listening and laughing as I type from the comfort of my… well, telling you where I am would give away the ending, so let me start a bit earlier.
Yesterday I drove to Indiana (yes: the state of) for an interview (you know this, of course; but, you understand, other people might be reading [a writer can dream]). The state of Ohio seemed to know that I was coming and summoned up a blanket of cloud cover, so there was no sunshine whatsoever until I was nearly to Indiana and the sun was at just the right angle to blind me; and you tell me the big O-H is harmless. I arrived in Fort Wayne without significant incident, met the people I was supposed to meet, was fed delicious local foods (who knew that stir fry was an Indianan delicacy?), did about three hours of research and interview prep, and went to bed.
On the morning of my first in-person higher education interview, I was up very early. I took my time getting ready, blow-dried and brushed my hair, even applied make-up; I looked pretty dang professional. New shoes, nice pants, cardigan, matching earrings, and no cartilage stud… stripped of my individuality, maybe, but quite the picture of what you would want in a hall director. I compensated by making sure that everyone who interviewed me knew about my motorcycle by the time we were done; gotta maintain as much cool as I can. Everyone was very kind, suitably impressed by the motorcycle, and they had some excellent questions. It was a good, if exhausting, day, and I was fairly content to climb in my car and mentally prepare for a long drive back to PA.
As with all stories involving myself and cars, that is where the adventure really began. I set the GPS, checked the tire pressure, stopped for gas, and set out for home… only to be stopped after the next set of railroad tracks. Or, more appropriately, not stopped: the pedal was going almost to the floor before anything remotely resembling 'braking' occurred. You know me well enough to believe that I didn't really accept that there was a problem until I had driven about five miles further and realized that the two-lane road was going to be four-lanes and fast very soon, at which point I did a cunning U-turn (it didn't require a complete stop!) and made my way back toward civilization very slowly, with a hand on the e-brake and a prayer on my tongue.
Somehow (by the grace of God, I know) I ended up on the right street, in the right block, to roll down the road and into an auto shop that was five minutes from closing, where the owner was locking up on "Golf Day" (Terry would appreciate that tradition, methinks) but was willing to take a look at my car. It only took fifteen minutes or so to determine that the back half of the 'master cylinder' was blown, meaning that I had front brakes, but no rear brakes. The truly ironic (I believe, but I don't have an internet connection to look up the definition at the moment) thing is, this was the safe car - I took it because the rear brake pads and rotors had just been changed.
All of this, of course, confirms for me that there is a black spot curse especially for motor vehicles, and I have it.
Larry Lash, the mechanic and hero figure of this grand adventure, was able to get a call in to the parts store in Indianapolis and order a new master cylinder a few minutes before they closed. He then offered to drive me back to the University and pick me up again in the morning when the car was fixed; the University generously welcomed me back, fed me dinner, and gave me a room. At dinner, I made friends with the man behind the counter, who wished me luck and made a fresh batch of french fries just for me (my father questions my use of the word 'friend' for someone who gave me a triple serving of deep-fried potato, but I stand by my choice).
Incidentally, the town where Mr. Lash has his Auto Service is called New Haven. Poetic, isn't it?
In any event, it has been an interesting day, to say the least. Anna Eichner tells me that this is exactly what should happen to Hall Director interviewees, because it allows them to see how you function under pressure... I just find it funny. Is that an appropriate way to deal with stress? Better to laugh than be crying, I suppose. I look forward to seeing you sometime soon, but until then, consider this my thank-you for setting me out on the perilous road to employment.
And yes, I think that may actually be too obvious to be a pun.
Sincerely,
Ceci
