The week flew past and Sunday arrived. It was going to be a special day – some girlfriends had planned a brunch they do every year in the fall. Another, somewhat flaky friend and I had talked about grabbing dinner to catch-up. It would all be fun.
The afternoon was gray, but the news said not to expect rain for another day or two.
The brunch was lovely. It continued until the afternoon and I spent the early evening running errands, killing time until my friend said he would call to confirm our plans.
5:00. Nothing.
6:00. Nothing.
7:00. Nothing. And I had run out of errands.
As I drove up a major street on my way home, the lighted marquis from the home improvement store emanated a hopeful glow above the hedges and buildings blocking my sight line to the store. The word “Quickrete” as written in my date book flashed in my mind.
"Pothole, it’s go time,” I thought.
Around 8-ish, I drove up my peculiar little street with two 60-pound bags of the tarry asphalt magic, a large, flat board, a pair of rubber gloves and a mission.
“Go inside, eat your take-out, change into grubbies and come back out, or just do it now?,” I asked myself.
The reality crept in. I would go inside, eat my take-out turkey meatballs marinara, the tryptophan would start to take hold and I’d opt for turning in. The next thing I knew, it would be Wednesday and I would be driving to work yet again in a wet suit … with the answers to all of my problems sitting lazily inside my garage. Or I could getter done.
Unfortunately, the patching process was not as simple as my friend at the Bureau had described. Each 60-pound bag of asphalt and tar mixture is an awkward, heavy mass. To fill this pothole, I had to slice open the bag length-wise and lay it down on the hole.
No, there was not a simple kerplunk to follow. You actually have to coax the 60 pounds of goop out of the bag. It’s viscosity is something truly impressive. It does not fill the hole like a fluid, you actually must mush it around to fill the hole’s shape. This is where the board came in.
Once I had molded it with my gloved hands to conform to the pothole more or less, I realized it was nowhere near flat. Ding! I grabbed my lovely board and laid it on top of the pothole to try tamping it down in my high heeled shoes.
"This would be a perfect moment for my disgruntled neighbor to drive past on her way home,” I thought.
She would have revved her engine to ritually manifest her unhappiness by speeding over the pothole and would have to slam on her breaks to avoid rear-ending my car, whose lights shone on me in my navy wool suit and camisole, tap dancing on a board in the middle of the street. Good times.
This was still not doing the trick, so I took off the tarred gloves, got into my car and drove back and forth over the pothole with the board on top.
Back – slowly.
Forth - slowly.
The first few passes over the board, it wretched a 1,000-splinter sound as the board and the gooey mound began making their accommodations to one another.
Baaack.
Fooorth.
Getting a little more confident with each gentle pass that this was starting to work.
Back. Forth. Back. Forth. La-de-da…I gingerly drove and reversed over it a couple more times just to show how easy it had become.
Done.
To gloat a little more – Why not? It was now 9:00 p.m., I was still in a very nice wool suit and had managed to fill that dastardly pothole with nothing more than some vindictive tar and asphalt crumbs on my hands - To gloat, I took the excess tarry mush from the bag and did the same on a couple more holes on the street that could use filling.
Yes, I felt triumphant.
As I stood at my kitchen counter a few minutes later, with my turkey meatballs and a dewey glass of wine awaiting me while I removed the tar and crumbs from under my nails with Cutex and a Q-tip, I felt empowered.
Haha, you disgruntled neighbor, Bureau of Street Whatever, flaky friend and obstinate asphalt/tar mush. I will take care of this myself!
Nearly a year has gone by and the earth under the patched pothole has shifted so it is, once again, on its way to being a pothole. No doubt by December, I will again have a couple of wet-suited mornings, courtesy of my neighbor.
That does not concern me so much. I still have that second bag of Quickrete, the board, and the gloves - and the navy suit and heels are no worse for the wear.
Who knows, I may have a patch-tamping party and invite a bunch of friends to my street to help me stomp the second patch bag into place.
That is the confidence that can only come from trying and succeeding at something yourself. And that confidence comes in handy.
So empowering!!
Posted by: Julie | Oct 12, 2010 at 12:21 AM