BB Grey–musings

Good Morning 

Yesterday was a fiasco that ended with me eating lemon bread in bed. Crumbs are everywhere, a clothes trail from the front door through the living room, bathroom, and finally next to the bed—the order of disrobing exactly opposite of what one might expect.

I had bought a pallet of concrete blocks, ten sacks of concrete mix, and five sacks of mortar mix. I waited an hour for the forklift operator, who seemed to change three times or maybe it was just the surgical mask making everyone look the same yet different. I loaded 75 blocks and grabbed another 15, which were placed precariously on top. These blocks were only shrink-wrapped (a Saran-wrap type product thought bulletproof by Lowes employees) once around, a detail that proved significant later. Each block weighs about 20 pounds and has razor-sharp edges—Saran Wrap barely keeps two slices of bread together, let alone concrete blocks.

I decided to take the Highway up the mountain, which had just reopened, saving time compared to going around via a local Lake or as affectionately referred to as the backside. Driving up the hill with 5000 pounds, I was going a leisurely 50 mph when I felt the urging of a white Dakota truck behind me to speed up. The blocks, not appreciating the ride, decided they’d had enough. There was a loud “thunk!” followed by “ba, ba, ba, ba, ba.” Looking in my rearview mirror, I saw my truck bed shift as the once-centered Jenga stack of blocks turned into a pile, with exactly 15 now fist-sized rocks on the opposite side of the road.

I moved over, the Dakota truck swerved, and its driver looked over with a smirk, then his face changed to an “oooh… ouch!” as he saw the mess in his mirror. Two cars limped by, their drivers probably noting the casualties. Meanwhile, a garbage truck driver on the other side, possibly bopping to Ariana Grande with headphones, realized too late he couldn’t stop in time. The next sounds were airbrakes, then “crunch, crunch, crunch! screech! pop, pop!” like Rice Krispies with Coke instead of milk. I expected a “wham, crash, bang!” as the cars behind him accordioned, but they managed to stop. I worked a mediocre clean-up effort, ensured all was okay, and left, 15 blocks lighter.

After delivering the materials without any sirens following, via Old Mill Road and Granny Flat Hill Drive, I ended up in Hemet (a desert oasis, lean on the oasis part), waiting for a plumber who was only seven months late.

Whiskey Babes (a local dive bar) seemed like the oasis I needed to calm my nerves, but…