Guy calls me this morning.
- Seņor Firs! he shouts.
- Yes, I answer meekly, sleepily.
- Is there any chance you can you come in tomorrow morning rather than Monday like we'd talked about?!
The AC in my car crapped out. I knew it before I went in there for the evaluation. The air, while cool, had begun to blow ever softer. It had happened over the course of a year or so. And then recently I took a trip to the US and rented a car with ice-cold, gale-force AC and the stark contrast led to the sad conviction that my own AC was just not right. Especially because once I returned to my ride the air, in a new twist, wasn't even cold.
Which is what led me down the unpaved road behind the local transport terminal in the provincial capital twenty minutes down the road from where I live. There was nothing more than a Private Property sign. The dude who recommended the AC repair place told me that long-distance busses get washed there. This is true. He told me that there was a sign indicating a Lava Auto. This is not true. In any event, I made my way down this road and to the fellow who I hope will fix my AC. Tomorrow.
- What time do you want me to be there?
- Nine.
- How long will this take?
- No later than two in the afternoon.
- Dale, pues. See you at nine.
So, serendipitously, I find myself conveniently able to put my money where my mouth is tomorrow. For the second time in the team's outSTANding history I will not see the game in real time. (Possibly, [hopefully?] not at all.) And, for the first time, me importa una verga, cha.
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