A Reasonable Person Would Have Stayed Home Or Walked

It should be simple, right?

We had one objective— two slushies after the AC unit crapped out again, for the last time. One semi— working AC unit in the busted car and absolutely no patience left between us. What is the worst thing that could happen?

Oh. That.

Here's the thing about "just going out for two slushies": it sounds simple. It's not simple— not even close. Nothing involving my husband, our car, the failing AC unit, and the blistering July heat is ever simple, and I should really know better by now. And yet.

The AC had been on a slow march towards death for weeks now. (Years, really.)Every time it fired on, it got just a bit louder, and instead of calling a professional, like a person with any sense, my husband decided the appropriate response was to hit it. Repeatedly. With his hand— not sure if I'm thankful for that detail or not. As if the compressor were a jammed vending machine and not several hundred dollars' worth of mechanical system.

It did not like the percussion therapy.

In hopes of getting some relief from the heat and noise, I decided I'd take our daughter to the convenience store instead of sticking around to watch her father electrocute himself in the ninety-plus-degree heat. The stagnant air in the apartment was hot; everything felt moist. I called out to my husband, told him not to lose a limb or his life, then dragged our daughter out to the car, where she buckled in with great reluctance— only relenting once I promised slushies were the end goal. Thank the sugar gods for that, or she'd have dragged her heels the whole way.

Simple. Two slushies. Maybe three, if I was feeling generous towards my husband. One car ride. Five minutes away. SIMPLE.

I got behind the wheel of our car and regretted it the second I sat down. Manual transmission. I'd forgotten my car was in the shop getting the windshield fixed, on account of following a gravel truck a little too closely one time. Words were exchanged about that between my husband and me. I understood the folly of my ways, and we agreed to never speak of it again. Until now, when I realized I was going to have to bunny-hop my daughter to the convenience store, because I still, after all this time, do not know how to drive stick. My husband has Feelings about "real driving," and I'd apparently agreed to suffer for them. In ninety-plus-degree heat. With my daughter, who loved pointing out how sweaty I was from the back seat, sitting directly in the line of the one working vent.

"Mom— you're really red right now."

Or:

"Wow, your neck is leaking."

And my favourite:

"Mom, the back of your shirt is wet."

Thanks, child. Look, I know I'm heavyset, I don't work out much, I don't get out much, and in this blistering heat I look like a cherry tomato being squeezed into a straw. I was busting at the seams, my shirt gone slick with it. It's not a good look, and I only wanted a damn slushie so I could stop worrying about my husband and his complete lack of self-preservation as he hit the AC unit for the fifth time. BAAANG!

Shit. He was going to get himself killed one of these days.

The car turned over with ease, at least — small mercies — and I threw it into reverse. I cranked the vent dial to blast the cold air toward me, and it sputtered out barely-cool air for its trouble. In the rearview mirror, my mini-me was basking in the actual glory of the one cold vent, because of course it was pointed directly at the back seat.

I wanted to hate her for that brief moment, but then I remembered I was the one who wanted to have her. I love her. She's a child. She can't drive, she can't reach the pedals. Though part of me would pay real money to see what she'd do if the roles were reversed.

We made it about four blocks before the car, too, decided it had opinions about the day. I shifted a little too fast — the exact thing my husband always warns me about, the exact thing I always ignore. Until now. Now I stalled it out. Shit.

No biggie. I'll just restart. Shift back to gear one. Press the clutch. Hit gas and go.

Car stalled.

Car no go.

No biggie. Try again. Same thing.

"Mom?! What is that noise?"

Ah yes, the lovely spawn of my loins, in the back seat, critiquing everything I was doing. Great. Just great.

"Nothing, sunshine. It's just me trying to get the car back into go mode."

"Did you stall?"

Shit. Where did she even learn that word? Crap. Retry. Retry. Son-of-a-mother — engine does not fwoosh to life. It stays dead. If this were a medical drama, the doctor would've called it by now.

"I think you flooded the engine," she said — a direct quote from her father, no doubt.

Yeah. I think I flooded it too. Shit.

But the store is right there — I can see the neon flashing. I grumble out a slew of car words and knock my head against the wheel, trying to think. Huh. Turns out percussion therapy does work on things. Just not the things you want it to.

HONK! A horn behind me, and more car words from the man now yelling at me to move it along. I flail my arms in something like an apology, try the ignition once more, and pray to whatever car god is on duty that today's the day they like me. It jerks to life. I hit the gas with everything I've got and launch us out of the intersection and halfway into a parking lot. Convenient.

I take a deep breath and assess the situation. Us, in the damn manual car, stalled on the side of the road. Husband a few blocks behind. Slushies two blocks ahead. What. To. Do. SIMPLE.

"Get out," I say, turning to look at my beloved womb goblin.

"Uh?" is all she manages before I'm already leaning over the seat, unclicking her belt, throwing the car into neutral, and climbing out myself.

"Get out. Mama needs help pushing." I wiggle my eyebrows at her until she slinks out of the car and wiggles hers right back. "Just help me push the damn thing so it doesn't get hit."

"You said a car word," is all she grins out, small hands braced on the bumper, pushing alongside me. Fu— I take a breath. I take a breath. I will not be bullied by a six-year-old today.

We manage to push it into an empty lot on the next block, and for one glorious second I consider leaving the keys on the dash with a note: FREE TO WHOEVER CAN DRIVE STICK. That'll show my snooty husband exactly how I feel about his precious clutch. But I don't. I'm responsible. (Sorta.)

I power-walk the rest of the way with my child and shove through the convenience store doors like a woman who has been through some shit. Who hasn't, though — stalled out twice in traffic, taken out by the heat, sweat now dripping down my back and into my pants. God, this is not comfortable. I glance at the small child beside me, already beaming at the slushie machines.

The store's AC hits me like an old friend, instantly cooling my skin and drying me out — finally. I may have stood in the doorway a beat too long, and I'm not even sorry. Though the man behind me, aiming for the same spot, might have something to say about it.

My daughter grabs her cup and builds her usual concoction — blue raspberry, a splash of lime, a little orange — slaps the lid on, and tears into her straw so fast I hadn't even gotten my card out before she was guzzling it like a little heathen. I did teach her manners. Really.

I turn to grab my own cup and go for my flavour — cherry, the entire reason for this quest, the one thing that was going to cool me down. I raise my cup to the machine, and there it is:

BROKEN. In big, bold letters, taped over the spout. Not low. Not out. Broken.

Like. My. Heart.

And patience.

I didn't even laugh at it. I just stood there, watching all the other machines whirl on with their flavours.

Of course it was.

I got lime. Drank it down fast enough to earn a brain freeze on the way to pay. Grabbed a chocolate bar for my husband, out of the goodness of my heart, and we made it back to the apartment in under an hour. No banging sounded from within.

I opened the door to the most beautiful sight of my life: an actual AC repairman, firing up the unit, while my dear husband stood off to the side rubbing his head, looking oddly sheepish. I handed him the chocolate bar and what was left of my melted slushie.

Then I dropped the other bomb.

"Car's down the block. Engine flooded."

He just looked at me — the exact expression of a man who wanted to say something snarky and, for once, knew better.