Story of a Semi-Useful Crowbar

Story of a Semi-useful Crowbar

Inspired by- and written during- a terrifying car ride.

SCREEECH. So begins my brother's quest to learn to drive a stick-shift.

No, wait, I lied. He's been driving my nasty, old, green pickup truck for about a month now, and he still peels out every single time he stops. He should have some skill proficiency by now, but nothing has changed that I can see, besides his confidence. His head has grown horribly out of proportion to what he can do, resulting in egotistical knee driving while the emergency brake is still on.

SCREECH. Anyway, he is currently attempting to drive down the road at 40 mph in first gear. I think his brights may be on, as well. I won't give him any pointers though, because every time I try, he uses my “distraction tactics” as an excuse for how awful he is at this. I'll let him figure it out, but I really wish I could say something about his habit of taking roads that include stop signs on hillsides.

PKAW. Put. These are the sounds that a truck on the side of a steep hill makes when it's driver realizes it needs to be in neutral to stop only after stalling it. After such a mistake, the vehicle usually rolls downhill backwards, which is why I'm really glad there is no one behind us.

BAM. This is the noise that a truck will make while hitting a woman out walking her dog. Just kidding, that didn't happen.

So now that he finally has the whole “driving with both hands on the wheel” concept down, we are continuing on our way to the grocery store, which is why we are out here risking my life in the first place. After a few more problems changing gears while turning on the radio, wrestling with his seat belt clicky thing, and trying to roll down his window (all at the same time), I'm about to wet myself as we roll slowly through the back of the parking lot, using leftover momentum to hopefully get all the way into a parking spot.

When we finally come to a rest between two different spaces, he has a realization;“Ohhh! The emergency brake was on the whole time! That's why I was driving badly!” Yes, of course. He'd surely have been a prodigy from day one, if hadn't been for that. Curse thee, emergency brake! You stunt the potential of America's youth!

Now, I don't believe he's noticed his lights yet, but we have more pressing concerns. We were supposed to be getting some stuff from the store, so I suppose we'll go into the grocery. The only problem with this plan, as expected, is Karl's exceptional skills at dumbassery. The moment his door clangs shut, I hear, “Uugh. Nuts.” This can be taken to mean one of two things in Karl language; either he's just been kicked in an unpleasant spot, or he's just locked the keys in the car. I'm currently thinking the phrase needs to be multipurpose, but I'll contain myself, and we can consider what to do.

Part 2

I'm significantly more cheerful now, for a couple of reasons; one being that I have both of my feet on the ground; the other being our solution to the problem at hand.

What did we do? Well, what else? We were at the grocery store, so we went shopping. Now, when we knew that the door was locked with no way inside, both my brother and I had the same immediate thought; the only thing we needed was a crowbar. It really is times like these (and only times like these), that make me appreciate not being an only sibling.

Upon entering the appropriate section of Buehlers' Grocery Store, Karl adopted his boyscout manners to politely ask the assistant where a crowbar could be found, explaining the the difficulty of having a car that is locked from the inside.

“....And so that's why we need the crowbar.”

“Do you guys have Triple A?”

“Nope! We don't need it!.”

“Yeah, and crowbars are useful all the time.”

And so, with an expression that made you think he was in some kind of pain, the assistant led us to the back of the section. We realized how nervous he was, leading two teenagers to the area with crowbars and chainsaws and whatnot, so we ended up messing with him a bit.

“I like that one, with the pointy thing.”

“Yeah, I like it too, but why get one that little? Might as well get the biggest one.”

“You know, you could be right. Maybe. But if I can't lift it, I can't smash things....”

“Okay, so get the second biggest one, then.”

“Sounds good. And it's the perfect length for fishing through the window to unlock the truck.”

What? You thought we were going to break through a window? Of course not. That lowers the retail value on the truck, and if that goes any lower, we'll have to pay someone to take it away.

Part 3

Unfortunately, this isn't working. I've been trying to get to the lock from the back window, but the crowbar isn't quite long enough. Our only other option is to walk. The closest place with a spare key, though, isn't where we came from. The closest place is our mother's house, also known as the cleanest place in hell.

As we walk, I feel kinda awesome. I'm carrying a crowbar nearly half my length, and someone shouts, “Shit, she's got a crowbar!” from inside a car down the block. I'm actually starting to feel quite gangsta, for the first time in my life, and we get there way too soon. I won't detail the part where we actually are inside the house (it involves removing shoes, washing feet, lint brushing, and a chemical decontamination shower, and that's just to get inside), so we now skip ahead to the ride home.

This time around is less terrifying. After Karl finally realizes that his lights are on and turns them off, gives me one key to prevent a repeat mistake, and takes off the emergency brake, we get going. By the time we get home, he has only stalled twice, and he manages to “Jew” four hills (Karl's term). He doesn't quite manage to conquer the Driveway of Death, but overall, his driving is now a bit less atrocious.

We re-enter the house, a few hours later than we were expected to return, and put the groceries on the table. (This is also the table where we find a mysterious driver's license, which seems to have been there a while.) “You know,” Karl says to me, “I'm glad I have an experienced and skilled driver to help me do all of this.” I suppose I should appreciate the double irony in his words. If I hadn't been such a “skilled” driver with his previous, less crappy car, he wouldn't be learning the joys of old trucks.

Experienced driver indeed.