No Plan is Truly Fool-Proof. Louis Shalako.

 Louis Shalako




No plan is truly fool-proof.

This morning, ten after seven, I was squatting in a couple of inches of water, as well as the dark, the cold and the rain. The tire I had plugged yesterday was holding air, so I could jack up the car and put it back on. That took ten or twelve minutes, suffering all the while, and in fact my lower back is stiff and sore. Firing up the vehicle, I got about one block and then the fucking yellow 'check engine' light was on, and the vehicle was running rather rough. All I could do was go around the block and try and get her back in the parking lot before she died. 

This car has something called 'limp home' mode, which is exactly what it says. It will get you home, but she will not start up again. And, just before I got to the entrance to the parking lot...it cleared up and the light went out.

Fuck.

What do we do now? I still needed smokes and gas. So I just continued on up the street, sticking close to home and trying to decide what to do. Money in hand, the engine was still behaving. Turning in the opposite direction, (which coincidentally goes past my building again, just in case of trouble), I went to my regular gas station, where the coffee is cheaper and I get to make it myself--if it's the last of the pot, I might skip it, but today I got a regular sized coffee for about $1.14.

And the car was still behaving normally. The smoke-shack isn't that far away, so I headed on down there, also noting that my rear tire felt like it had about ninety lbs. pressure in there. 

(When I checked it, it was up in the high thirties, which I have since adjusted). Picking up smokes for myself and the fucking neighbour, which always seems like a pain in the ass, (it's not like I don't have other priorities), I decided to sort of angle up towards where the highway passes along the east side of the city. With the engine running fine, there was that point.

That point where you have to commit to the mission.

I committed to going to work, and it is true that I have a cell-phone and roadside assistance. 

And I was afraid. I was afraid of the thing dying on me, and then I have to decide where to tow it. I have no fucking money and the credit card is maxed out.

It's just stress, ladies and gentlemen, but I need that part-time job, and if nothing else, it puts a bit of food in the fridge and buys me a God-damned beer once in a while.

I might have even said a little prayer there--whatever that's worth, coming from an atheist.

Anyways, I got in three hours at the shop, I made it home, and hopefully the thing will get me to the dentist’s office tomorrow and the fucking food bank on Friday.

You guys know I have all kinds of books and stories on Google Play, right.

Image. Louis Shalako. (No, it’s not my car. I wish.)

Thank you for reading. Better yet, thank you for listening.

END

My Fool-Proof Plan. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

Tomorrow looks all fucked up, but I am a mission-oriented person.

I have a plan, not exactly fool-proof. You see, ladies and gentlemen, I had a flat tire the other day.

That is to say, earlier this morning—

Here's what I said on Facebook.

 

"This morning, I had fifteen totes full of dough-balls all set to go. The boss was a bit late, so I stepped outside and saw that the right rear tire was flat. I managed to snap the nuts loose...rain coming down. When I tried jacking it up, the jack was headed for China, as the parking lot at the shop is gravel, very soft in the mild conditions. Luckily, I found a short bit of 2" x 6" in the back forty. It made a big difference, jacking the car up rather than forcing the jack down. Once I had the doughnut spare on, I noticed that I still had my step-dad's tire puncture repair kit, and upon examining the tire, I was fortunate to find a hole, still gushing a bit of air. I managed to get the rasp in and out a few times, twisting and turning it to clean up the hole...I also managed to get a plug through the little slot in the end of the tool, and then I managed to get the plug in and the tool out, as it were...locking up the shop after the boss left, I drove across the street and put a buck's worth of air in it. Checking it later, it seems to be holding air. I will check that again--I have a pressure gauge. And then I will need to find a place to change that back."

" I sure as hell can't do it here in our Lake Steeves & Rozema parking lot."

Yeah, so, anyways, the plan for tomorrow goes something like this: I get up at the crack of dawn, sort of drive the car to a parking lot somewhere that isn’t flooded, and change that fucking tire back from the doughnut to the real one. And then, go to the bank, take out money, go across the street, get some fucking gas and a fucking coffee, and then head down to the smoke shack, get some fucking smokes for me and the fucking neighbour, and then drive to work, hopefully on a tire that I repaired myself and one which is, presumably, still holding pressure.

Wish me luck on that one, but, even driving on that fucking useless, 80-kph, fucking doughnut spare tire, temporary use only, I could still make the smoke-shack, the liquor store…maybe even a tire shop. But honestly, I think it’s fixed.

Oh, yeah, and after all that, I get to go to work, to make the dough.

But here’s the thing. I can still abort—take Wednesday off. Go to the dentist appointment first thing Thursday morning sort of thing…wait for the fucking parking lot to dry out a bit here in this Steeves and Rozema Residential Apartment Building.

In that sense, I really am kind of my own boss, with a fair amount of day-to-day latitude.

#superdough

Here I am on fucking Smashwords.

Thank you for reading.

The Road to Hell. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

Recently, a radio personality here in the local market said something interesting. He said that suicides are not reported as such out of respect for friends and family of the deceased. That’s fair enough, bearing in mind all funerals are announced, and that pretty much everyone who isn’t completely destitute gets some kind of obituary. The general public doesn’t necessarily need to know the cause of death, although there are often mentions of ‘a courageous battle against cancer’ and the like.

But I have been curious for a long time, as to just what percentage of clients of the Ontario Disability Support Program, or Ontario Works, (welfare), commit suicide in any given year. 

The most cynical answer is politics, it is public opinion. It is also a little bit about how such things work.

This figure is completely bogus, okay? I made it up: but let us say that there are roughly 750,000 ODSP clients in the province of Ontario, and let’s say there are a further 125,000 on Ontario Works benefits. (That part's real enough. - ed.)

If a half of one percent of that group, or those groups, committed suicide in any given year, this could now be compared to other social, demographic groups.

And the fact is, it would probably compare unfavourably.

That is to say, it would be more—

And knowing that, we could investigate the causes, and apply some remedy.

One would think.

We don’t know for sure—we don’t have those statistics. But surely gut instinct, as well as reason, tells us that the rate for people on these programs would be measurably higher than the suicide rate among plumbers, sport fishermen, snake charmers, mountain climbers, or any number of groups in higher economic brackets.

Surely this would be a political hot potato by any ethical standard.

Surely the opposition parties, both right and left of the currently ruling Liberals, here in Ontario, would make much of such a thing.

Maybe that would be just. Maybe that’s just—

But, in fairness to the Liberals, no preceding government has ever attempted to gather those statistics, for if they had, surely this would be a matter for the public record. And, (and this is gut instinct again), certainly no upcoming government would ever undertake to record, and to gather, and make use of those statistics, because they know the only answer is money.

And all they have are thoughts and prayers.

The road to hell has always been paved with good intentions.

Whoops. Almost forgot my point. But somebody somewhere, a cop, a doctor, a coroner, knew whether it was a suicide.

This information is available ladies and gentlemen.

They just don't want to know.

For obvious reasons.

END

Image. Daily Mail.

Thank you for reading.