I pick my wife up at work every day. Usually I arrive as she's leaving, but sometimes I'm a little early. So I'll sit in the car and listen to the radio. The air-con is on too if it's hot. This has never been a problem insofar as battery drainage, but the other day, after plugging in my smartphone charger, I try turning the radio on, and it won't go on—the battery died (don't EVER charge your phone in your car unless the engine's running)! This is really bad—the type of shit that'll surely send my wife into a rage.
Why did you try to charge your phone? Didn't you know the battery would die? You had the air and the radio on also?! I imagine her yelling at me.
I have ten minutes tops before she leaves work—I have to get this thing jumped before she leaves. I'm parked right near the garage exit of my wife's building, so I try waving down the first car that comes out. It's a BMW SUV driven by a youngish, well-dressed woman who looks like she's in marketing. Surprisingly, she stops. I ask her if she has cables and she seems a little flustered—she really wants to blow me off but just doesn't have it in her. It's just like when someone has their blinker on and is trying to move over to your lane—if the driver remains faceless, it's so easy to drive ahead and cut them off. But if a driver were to stick their head out the window, smile, and make a personal plea, few people are heartless enough to deny them the courtesy. So she pulls over, gets out, and opens her trunk. She must have cables if she's opening her trunk, right? No. She thought she had them but she doesn't.
So I wave the next driver down—nope, no cables, he says. So then I break out my AAA card and put it on the hood of my car while I search for my phone. All of a sudden I hear this concerned young woman's voice say,
Awww, what happened? Certain the voice wasn't directed at me, but still curious, I turn around and see this attractive, fashionable 23-year-old hipster woman—and she
is talking to me! Being a man in my late '30s, I still don't believe it—I'm invisible to women like this. I tell her my car won't start—do you have any cables? No, I didn't drive today—sorry, but good luck! she says.
So I get AAA on the line and give them my info—they'll arrive in a half hour the dispatcher tells me. Knowing my wife won't be happy about blowing a towing credit, I continue to look for other options. There's a parking lot down the block—perhaps the dude at the booth has cables, right? I run down to the lot and there's no booth and nobody on duty. I turn back toward my car and walk past a beat-up old Chevy. There's this greasy, gearheadish, amphetamine-fueled vagrant who's rummaging around in the back of his truck. He's got a mountain of tools and wires and building materials back there. This guy surely has cables. I should emphasize that, although he appeared to have a drug habit, live out of his truck, and suffer from psychological problems, he wasn't scary. He was smallish, with glasses—seemed approachable. So I tell him I need a jump—does he have cables?
Yes, I have cables—where are you parked? My luck is turning! I just need to get this guy to pull up alongside my car and I'm set. So I point to my car and then I realize his door is broken. He can't get the passengerside door to close. As he continues working on it, my phone rings—it's my wife! She says she's coming right down. I have two minutes before she arrives. I try my hand at the door; no luck. Then, he fixes it. Now, he just has to find the cables, he says. Oh fuck—are you kidding me? You don't even know where they are?! I see my wife approaching the car—there's no way to hide the issue any longer. I run down to the car and explain the situation—she's pissed off just as I knew she'd be. I tell her to calm down—let's pull together—divided we fall, right? So I give her the AAA phone number along with our reference number. Once the benevolent vagabond gets our car started, you need to call the number and cancel the tow, okay? She barely musters a churlish nod whilst rolling her eyes.
So I run down to reconvene with the drifter (I'll call him JT Vaga) and discover he's found the cables! They look to be 30 years old and the black plastic casing which houses the copper wiring is completely chewed off right where the wiring meets the clamps. Pointing to the offending decay, I ask him, you think these will even work?
Yeah, they'll work—no problem.Now I feel bad—like I've offended him. I look up and realize he's not even tripping. He's heard a thousand fuck-yous.
So I point to my car and tell him to meet me up there.
Okay, he says—but now, his car isn't starting! Third times a charm, however, and he gets her up and running.
I race down to my car and my wife can still scarcely contain her scorn, but she's distracted when she sees JT Vaga rolling down the street—this is her first good look at him and she's wondering, who the hell is this guy?
Don't worry, I assure her—this guy's cool.
So he pulls alongside my car and heads to the back of the truck. He's endlessly rummaging again now—looking for something. What's the hold-up now? I run back, concerned, as there's a huge line of cars behind us waiting to get by. Also, I have maybe five minutes before AAA arrives.
I ask him if there's anything I can help him with. Somehow, in the process of retrieving the cables, he's lost his keys in the back of his truck! So I go help sift through his shit. I look back at the pissed-off drivers and make a "just one minute" gesture with my finger in the air. Although truth be told, I had no idea if JT Vaga would ever get it together. But, seconds later, I deliver on my promise to the drivers—JT found his keys, attaches the cables, and starts the car! My wife starts our car, cancels AAA and we're all good. I tell JT, that at this moment, you are the most beautiful man on the planet! My wife softly tells me, out of JT's earshot, to give him a 20. Good idea. Upon receipt of his bounty, JT seems surprised; even baffled—but he was also grateful. My wife later said that he looks like he could've used a little help and that the 20 was a nice gesture--I think she was right.
They claim the shoe is supposed to give you energy--that's why the energy drink is being poured on the shoe. Also, the logo is a sperm! A journalist from AdWeek reported that retailers were backing out due to potential controversy. He couldn't believe the logo was a sperm and called the company to confirm. This was their response:
