Crap, I'm going to have to rescue myself now

I look both ways, left, and then right, and left again, checking to see if I could find a gap in the traffic across the four lanes of Evans Avenue. My helmet was looped over the left handle bar, held in place by my left hand gripping the handle, my right hand holding the back handle of the scooter, behind the saddle. That’s right, I was not astride the scooter, but rather next to it, crossing Evans on foot. There was no scooting happening, just me, walking my scooter home because I couldn’t get the dang thing to start again. I endured a new kind of walk of shame: instead of a party dress and heels in the wee hours of the morning, I was dragging home my scooter in the middle of the day. This shame might have felt worse - this was no victory walk of a night well had, but proof I had no right owning a scooter. At least it felt like that.

I don’t know what happened - truly I don’t, but I suspect it had to do with my fueling technique. Reader, I can feel your judgement already. I’ve refilled the tank before, with my dad, but that time was just fine, easy peasy, no disaster. I knew my fuel type was correct, unleaded, but I suspect my technique wasn’t the best, as the splash of fuel all over indicated I’d overfilled the tank. In that moment, it felt like more of a “lol, whoops” kind of thing. But after I replaced the fuel tank lid and my helmet on my head, I turned on the ignition, held the brake and pushed the starter button. The engine made a feeble attempt to turn over, and then died. I watched in horror as the speedometer needle flipped all the way over to the right, and then back again to the start, at zero. I tried again. And again. Each time, each start went worse than the previous. Thinking maybe I’d flooded the engine, I pulled my phone out of my pocket to call the only person who could either help, or come get me with the truck. He would know what was wrong, what to do. And then the most crushing realization descended on me: I couldn’t make that phone call, because my dad was dead.

I’ve been missing my dad more lately, noticing his absence more often. It’s usually a few minutes of tears, an acknowledgment of my loss, a hole in the world that he used to take up with his whole being, but then I move on with my day. Stranded at the gas station this past weekend was the first time I needed my daddy, and he wasn’t there. I was scared, I panicked, and of course I cried. I called my mom, and felt angry she wasn’t my dad. I called other friends in search of their husbands who also have scooters (and who, incidentally, I’m trying to recruit into my scooter gang. Safe to say, this might have hurt my gang’s attractiveness). Neither was available. Calls to other friends went unanswered. I was alone. Tearfully I mulled around sitting on the curb and crying until someone rescued me, or the alternative: the walk of shame home. After a stranger asked if I needed a jump, I decided to just get on home.

My dad had always given me a $100 bill to carry with me in the case of emergencies, and up until now, emergencies really consisted of cash only cabs late at night (pre Uber), or cash only bar situations. Not exactly what my dad had in mind, but at the time seemed like appropriate uses of those crisp bills. But, now? Today I realize there are emergencies that won’t be able to be fixed by placing a call to my dad, and I’m going to need to stash $100 bills everywhere, be it in the form of cash, a truck to move scooters and furniture, my own tool set, or become my own emergency call, my own superhero. I’m sure it’s time for that, but I don’t recall signing up for that responsibility, no one asked me.

A few days after the betrayal of my little white steed, the loss is still there. My dad is still the only person I want to ask for help about this dang scooter. I feel helpless, at a loss. The manual says to call the dealer, but I don’t need them, I need my dad.

I’m going to have to figure it out, ask friends, ask the internet, or eventually just call the dealer. It might take me longer to get this sorted out than it would if my dad were here, but it’s not like I’m going to just let the scooter collect dust in the garage - it’s too much fun, and my dad didn’t raise a quitter. Secretly, I’m hoping the bike just cures itself in the garage, but in the event that it doesn’t, I suppose I’ll have to save myself.

And maybe get a truck. And I definitely need waterproof mascara. That’s the thing about walks of shame of any kind: the mascara will be smeared all over your face.