Minor Flats

So how did I spend my Saturday?

I've not mentioned this here on the blog, but if you know me or you got here from my web site, you know that I have Muscular Dystrophy, and I'm in a wheelchair. A lot of people don't realize that some wheelchairs have tires with air in them. The old-school grandma chairs don't. The new spiffy ones do. I live the spiffy life.

So last night I realized the air in my tires was pretty low. It usually takes a while for me to realize that, and then I remember that it's been a little harder to get around for a while, and that's why. It was about 8:00pm, so I figured it was safe to fill them up. See, I have this air compressor I use, and it's loud as hell. And I live in an apartment complex. Being a courteous neighbor, I don't like to turn the big blower on when it's too late or too early in the day. So I got the old compressor out dragged the heavy thing into the bedroom, sat on the bed, leaned over, and started on one of the tires. I went to hook the nozzle up, and it had some problems getting on, and a lot of air leaked out until I got it properly clipped on. I then went to turn on the compressor. Nothing. Great. Dead battery. Hadn't I just charged that thing up last time? I thought I did. So I then went to get the nozzle off, and it stuck again, and most of the rest of the air leaked out of my right tire. So I essentially had a flat and no air. Fun.

I plugged the thing into the wall to charge overnight. I figured I'd fill it up this morning, a morning when I planned to go into the office and catch up on some work. But, as I mentioned that courteous neighbor thing, I didn't want to do it TOO early in case the folks sleeping right above me were sleeping in on a Saturday. So I figured I'd get up a little later, do a little less time at the desk today. I got up and around, started getting ready, and decided to do a quick test of the compressor. And it barely made a sound. Just a weak chug, one that died the minute I put my thumb over the end of the nozzle. Great. Did it normally charge that slow? I couldn't recall. I don't fill up my tires that often. What I didn't want to do was go leaving the apartment and going off to work and rolling around on a flat. I didn't want to damage the tube inside and then have to go through the extra trouble of buying one, and I didn't want to take the chance on letting the tube get off-track, which is a major pain in the ass to correct. So I figured I'd just go into the office later, hopefully after the battery charged up enough. I got showered and ready and waited around. Got some other things done. I went out on my patio briefly. My landlady was walking by, and she said, "Oh, you're home. Hey, we're going to be coming into your apartment in a little bit to set new master keys for your locks." Uh, they were changing the locks on me? Isn't that a bad sign when you rent? She assured me my keys would still work...she was just creating new masters for the office. Okay. I told her I may be taking off in a bit, but they were welcome to come in anytime and do what they had to.

After more waiting, I tried to compressor again. Same impotent chug, almost zero juice. It was getting obvious that the thing was shot, and the battery wasn't going to take or hold a charge. Great. I wanted to get to the office, but again, didn't want to be rolling all over town on that flat. And on Saturdays, the computer system at work is only up until 3pm, and time was burning. I'd also wanted to go out after that and get an oil change, hit Kinko's, and hit Staples for some supplies and an adapter cable to get my printer working with my new computer. There was a whole Saturday planned, and I just wasn't able to get to it. But I had a thought. The landlady said they'd be stopping by soon. It was possible that maybe the handyman had an air compressor in his handy tool shed and could hook me up, and then I could just go buy a new air compressor later. So I figured I'd wait around for her to show up, and give the compressor a little more time to charge. Long story short (enjoy the moment. I rarely make a long story short)? Never saw her again for the rest of the day (and since the office here isn't technically open on Saturdays, there was no way to reach her by phone), and the compressor never charged.

It became obvious that work wasn't going to happen, so I worked on some home filing projects and caught up on some email instead. I looked up my local Kragen Auto Parts, and luckily there was one pretty close by. As it was over 100 degrees out today, I figured I'd wait until later in the day. They closed at 9:00pm, my phone call to them informed me, so I finally rolled my tilted self out to my van around 6:30 (trying to keep leaning to my left as much as possible...) and headed over. I was the only customer in the store (one in a strip mall in a questionable part of the neighborhood), and there were two young girls working there by themselves. Odd for a Kragen. I might have thought I'd accidentally gone into the Gap if it wasn't for all the lug wrenches, air filters and Nascar swag around. I asked where I could find an air compressor. Girl #1 led me across the store to a bunch of big red units, with motors, about the size of outdoor barbecues. I explained I was really just looking for something for the wheelchair tires, something portable. Girl #2 then decided to help and led me to an unmotorized one, a tank that you go to the gas station and fill up and then take home. I guess I should have been complimented that she thought I could carry something that size. Okay, Noxema Girl...PORT-A-BLE...

We finally found the smaller ones. There were two, and both, I was happy to see, smaller and lighter than my old (dearly departed) one. Just wanting to get out of there and stop wasting what was left of my Saturday, I grabbed the bigger of the two (figuring the extra-small one would be slower at filling up) and had girl #1 ring me up. Which took an extra long time, because she decided to start telling me all about her life, and continued to do so after I'd gotten my receipt and was ready to go. Well, seeing as how the store was totally empty, I may have been the only person she'd talked to that day...with the exception of girl #2, who'd probably heard all her stories already. I swear, I think these two took too long to start looking for summer jobs, found out all the mall jobs got snatched up, and ended up stuck at Kragen. Well, you snooze, you...sell WD-40 and spark plugs all summer, I guess. Bum deal. Least I could do hear her out. I was reminded of the words of Vince Vaughn from "Swingers": "You think I even know what they're saying half the time? I just look at their mouths, and crinkle my forehead, and somehow I end up being a big sweetie".

So I made it home, hot and annoyed and a little winded from trying to roll around on one wheel like I was Lee Majors on "The Fall Guy". I just wanted to get the thing going and get my life properly inflated again. But, of course, this compressor came sealed in hard plastic that was apparently rated for NASA orbital missions. Couldn't get it open by hand. Tried scissors. Not quite the trick. The trusty Swiss Army knife was cutting neither the mustard nor the plastic (how the Swiss are expected to protect the Pope armed with one of those I have NO idea). I finally switched to the box cutter. Very, very sharp. And I was very careful with it, reminding myself continuously to proceed with all due caution. So, I cut my thumb open anyway. Got a band-aid on it as I'm typing this. But at least I finally got the damn thing open!

Only to find that the one I bought only works when plugged into a car cigarette lighter.

No battery involved (hence it being much lighter than my old one). No wall adapter. Cigarette lighter only. You know, the packaging showed pictures of basketballs and volleyballs. Seriously, who's out there driving around on the freeway pumping up a basketball? That can't be safe. What, they're marketing this thing to men who tend to their balls on the road? We're men, damnit! We tend to our balls at home!

I found out the cigarette lighter thing when I opened the compartment on the back and pulled out the power cord and the nozzle tube, trying to find some sort of plug for a DC adapter. No luck, and, it turns out, those cords were wound and packed in there by David Copperfield or Lance Burton. Maybe Siegfried. Maybe Roy. Because I could not, by any application of physics, get them back in enough to get the compartment closed again. Cannot be done. I dare you to try. Actually, don't, because if you try and pull it off, I may end up hitting you over the head with the thing, but hypothetically, I dare you.

So, carrying my wonderful new purchase with me, with tubes and cables dangling, rolling along like the unknown stuntman that makes Eastwood look so fine, I headed back out to my van, brought the lift down, and got in. Turns out my spiffy new van (told you I was living La Vida Spiffy) has a separate outlet besides the one the cigarette lighter's in, so I finally had a chance to test it out. Unfortunately, sitting in the driver's seat was not going to allow me to turn around and fill up any wheelchair tires. Unlike the old van, the new one has a passenger seat in the rear, so, trailing the power cord with me, I rolled back there, certain that the cord was going to end up just a few inches short of letting me do this from the seat. But it made it. Barely. I sat back in my Hanoi Hilton of a van that the day's weather had created and started trying to get the tires pumped. And really appreciating the fact that the creators of the Highway Ball-Pumper designed a really oversized nozzle that was on the end of a really short tube. I had to make several goes at getting my fingers through the spokes, only to find that it was looking like the thing wouldn't straighten out enough to line up with the tire nozzles. After some experimentation (and after letting the last of the air out of the tire, certain that I wouldn't be able to put any more back in), I finally managed to get it screwed up, hit the switch, and watch the gauge cycle up to 75psi. Slowly, but not too slowly. And having to screw it back off at the end instead of unclip it meant I got to cringe at the sound of air escaping as I fought to squeeze my fingers into position to finish the unscrewing, but in the end, the loss was minimal, and I managed to get both tires nice and rock-like. I was sweaty, I was vexed, but I was rolling proper again.

Since the thing isn't going to do me any good in the apartment, I left it (and its trail of cords that I didn't even bother arguing with) in the back of the van. Unless I decide to get another one, or find out there's a car-adapter-to-DC-adapter out there, I guess I'll be filling my tires in the van. Which is good news for the upstairs neighbors, I guess, who will no longer have to deal with the lawn mower roar of my old one. Plus, I'll be prepared if I'm on I-80 and suddenly realize my football's a little spongy. Speaking of my old one, I went back inside, unplugged it from the wall, and put it in the spot where I leave boxes and other such things too big for the kitchen trash can for my housekeeper to take out for me on Mondays when she does her thing. Just to make sure she had no confusion over whether I intended to get rid of it, I slapped a Post-It note on it with one appropriate word written on it:

"Garbage".

That was not how I intended my Saturday to go. Maybe I ought to start looking into grandma chairs after all. Maybe "spiffy" is overrated. Ah, well. I've had worse. Hey, I've gotten burned over Cheryl Tiegs, blown up for Raquel Welch. But when I wind up in the hay, it's only hay. (Hey hey).

Know what's weird? I just realized I don't know which one is Siegfried and which one is Roy. That's going to be really awkward if I ever meet them.