The word “idiot” may be offensive to some, but I use it here in the vein of “fool” and “knucklehead.” I am particularly fond of how the Irish spell and use the word “eejit.” Bonus points when elongating the “eeee.” Through the art of literary conjuring, the Irish have expanded the use of the word into an art form.
One freezing morning while Kay was traveling, I went out to start her car and found a battery dead. I inform her by phone, and added, “Don’t worry. I got this.” Such words would soon be eaten. I confidently pulled my car in front of Kay’s and popped the respective hoods. The “eejit” demon lurked in the shadows.
The battery posts on my car were easily marked so I attached the metal clamps of my jumper cables to the right connections on the battery. But Kay’s car was a newer and different model and I was stumped between the positive and negative posts. Now the wise person should have processed thoughtful deductions: look at the manual (never crossed my mind), call the auto parts store and ask for help (no way), call the mechanic at our service center (ditto), call a more knowledgeable friend (ditto, ditto), watch an instructional video (ditto, ditto, ditto). I got this, remember?
I had a fifty-fifty chance. Even if I blew it the first time I could just switch the jumper cable connectors, right? So “Damn the torpedoes. Full speed ahead.” I clamped the cables onto the posts and hopped into Kay’s car. I turned on the ignition but got no response. I expected the engine to give me some sign of life; in spite of the cold, a grumbling turnover would have been encouraging.
Then I noticed a trail of smoke and smelled burning rubber and melting plastic. I bolted from the car. To my horror, my cables were burning on the ground between the vehicles. I dashed into my car and turned off the engine, then yanked the clamps off the batteries posts. On the front of each car bumper was a smoldering scar left by the incinerated cables. I slammed the hood on each car muttering some non-church language.
Later, when sharing my story at a big family dinner, my grinning nephew responded, “You know, Uncle, people have gotten hurt by doing what you did.” I scoffed with a “I laugh in the face of death” wave of my hand.
One likes to make one’s wife proud. One likes to think of oneself as rescuer in times of trouble. At the very least, one likes to think of oneself as handy and useful when it comes to simple domestic tasks. But alas, Kay got stuck with a husband who only knows the difference between stage right and stage left and is able to construct paragraphs into a written story. That old song lyric, “It’s so nice to have a man around the house,” does not apply in my case. For better or worse, right?
