I am curled up in my car which is lodged into the small garage at the back of our apartment complex. From the dim street lights I can see a reflection in my driver’s side mirror outside the window. I am staring at two shadows against the pale wall, I think as I stare at the image. My eyes blur and then recover. Nope. I’m staring at two palm trees swaying in the night breeze --- their black silhouettes outlined against a gray ceiling of a sky. My mind flickers back and forth between a variety of subjects….

I think about how I am supposed to be in Germany right now. I think about whether or not it’s possible to be true to yourself, God, and others all at the same time. All of the time. I think about my friend Sally, her bright, almond eyes, and how she must be feeling about what is going on in her homeland of Burma. Are her parents even alive these days? Have they fled as refugees too? I think about how I can’t get into my apartment. Honda creaks and makes a popping noise and I think about how Tweak, my new little dog, and I were stranded on the highway five nights before when Honda made a sound like that and died. My mind flips to the man who came with his tow truck and how he kept asking me why my wood was flying up in the air.

What the…? I kept thinking as he waved his right arm around and finally pulled the tow truck over and pointed to my car dragging along on the back.

“How long you wood been flying up like tha’?” he asks with a strong accent and then a speech impediment to boot.

“My wood? What?”

“Yeah no, your wood—when I was driving my car like tha’ I had my wood flying up in my face all of the times and then it was up so much once it flipped in my face and…”

Oh. My. gawd….

“And then the shield it broke.” He said excitedly.

The shield. As in windshield. Wood. He meant Hood. I said over to myself as my cell phone dangled in my hand with one of my good friends from childhood on the other end.

“How long you ha’ that wood?” He asked again.

“Well it came with the car…” I answered.

Two hours later and he not only had my phone number (he is going to take me to an auction to find a better car though he said mine had a fantastic style ---oddly enough----even if I beat the shit out of it) but he also nearly roped me into being a musical partner with him. Apparently he is a professional violinist tow truck driver. Immigrating sucks, I gathered.

Sitting in the dark of my car I check the clock again. Both sisters are gone. One has my key. I’m stuck and Tweak is howling from the kitchen. And by howling I mean squeaking. Like a chew toy. I have a dog that could easily pass as an ornament on a Christmas tree…..things happen when you have a small apartment and certain compulsions. They just do. I count off the misfortunes of the last week on my left hand:

One broken down car.

One lost key.

One re-made key. Made by the man taking apart the car door.

One lost passport.

One canceled trip.

One briefly stressing urgent request at work right before the one trip that was canceled.

One uncomfortable email from a bi-polar individual.

One email from my brother saying he spent the night in a crack house after he lost his Eurail pass and somehow woke up in Amsterdam.

Fabulous.

Suddenly realizing I’m being ridiculous just sitting there, I get up, lock the car door, stuff my keys in my pocket and head to the front of the apartment. From there I manage to climb onto the roof, tip toe past the section above our neighbor the prostitute’s apt so whoever is in there won’t freak out, I shimmy onto the high fence, and then use our surfboards to walk myself down backwards until I can jump to the cement patio below. After assessing the situation I finally figure out how to unscrew the window, pry it open and climb through.

Aw crap. I think to myself. That was way too easy.

And why is it that being locked out of one’s house is easier, by far, than any of the questions I mused about whilst in the car?