For All Hallows' Eve, the neighbors conducted a kind of take-back-the-streets night out on the lawns, though our "drive by" problem consists mostly of motorists passing through at <25 mph. Around here, our crime-fighting measures add up to a lot of yard signs: rittenhouse estates patrol. slow children. no soliciting. That last one seems to have eliminated prostitution, but not magazine salesmen.

To anyone's memory, this was the first time Daylight Savings Time concluded after Halloween, making those fade-into-the-dark costumes less effective. Me, I've always thought DST worked the wrong way. Days are naturally longer in the summer, so why drag them out artificially? It's the winters when you need more light after dark.

I usually write in the mornings, so I like the sun to rise later. I feel as if I've gotten a jump on the day, with all the neighbors' lights out. The cooler air has an odd effect on my atmosphere, however: I can hear traffic rumbling from farther away. It's a low, dull roar, and it still mystifies me because the nearest major artery is two miles away. Must be a lot of commuters with tougher hours than I have.

on that note, 'tis the season of dead batteries at the office. Follow the sequence:

1. Leave the house for work.
2. Notice how dark it's gotten at this time of the morning.
3. Turn on headlamps.
4. Park at the office.
5. Work 9 hours.
6. Return to find battery dead from failure to follow through on Step #3.

This happens less frequently now that even the cheap cars come with lights-on alarms. Nonetheless, Rittenhouse owns a pair of 4-gauge cables, and they get a workout between the vernal equinox and December.

I bought these shortly after I adopted Scooter, the mid-60s convertible with a tractor battery in the rear. He didn't have a lights-on alarm, either, though at times he'd mysteriously drain himself of all available voltage without explanation.

you can make a lot of friends with jumper cables. Or not. One night Squeeky and I were a mile or so from home when we came across a young couple stalled in the middle of a six-lane avenue. I helped him push the car into a parking lot, where we figured he needed a jump. I clamped the high-tension lines in place and his motor roared back to life. My appraisal: bad alternator, and it would run down again promptly if he drove anywhere with the headlights on; might go a few miles otherwise.

I looked him over. He was dressed too warmly, needed a haircut weeks ago, and his car bore out-of-state plates. What really disturbed me was the look in his eyes. It's the same barely controlled menace you see on official mugshots: criminal. He convinced me of that with his response.

"It burns oil. I might need some oil in it. I might need some money to buy oil."

Never mind the non sequitur. His awkward transition to hitting me up for money felt vaguely threatening. And I might whack you on the head if you turn your back on me.

I quickly checked his companion's location. She was still in his car, looking apprehensive but not distressed. Neither of them knew how they were going to get out of this situation, stuck in a strange town in a car that wouldn't take them anywhere and, likely, low on funds.

At another time I might have had more resources to suggest or offer. But fear was overtaking my thoughts, and no way was I going to put myself or Squeeky or our home into play in this foreign and possibly desperate situation. I repeated my assessment, unhooked the cables, wished him well, and left.

Sometimes none of the choices at hand seem viable, except to flee.

now i learn that dst itself is proven fatal. Wouldn't that be loverly, to get run over trying to jump-start someone's car? 

Posted by: Michael Rittenhouse at 06:29 AM | No Comments | Add Comment
Post contains 656 words, total size 5 kb.