Surprise! Today’s my birthday . . . my fortieth, but to me it was just another day.
It was a busy week, like most, but my boss let me off early for my birthday. That was a shock, but the real surprise came when I arrived home.
I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but I could see by the decorations on the garage my wife did. A big red ribbon with a bow dressed the door.
As I flung open the garage door, my wife stood dangling a set of keys – taunting me. Behind her was a candy apple red sports car. “Let’s go for a ride.”
My mouth hung open, and the words came slowly. "Are you kidding me?"
“It’s all yours.“ She smiled and jingle jangled the keys. “I rented it for the day.”
A day was more than I expected and all that I needed. Not a new model with all the latest electronic options but a classic 1963 Austin Healey convertible roadster. Twenty-four hours was all the time I had with this beauty.
I didn’t bother to eat or change clothes. I couldn’t wait to experience the ride of a lifetime. We jumped in the car, and I cranked over the engine. It had a full throaty rumble when the engine fired up.
To some renting a classic sports car may sound frivolous, just a waste of money. We all have different hobbies that make life exciting, and this was mine.
“Where do you want to go?”
I responded without hesitation. “Let’s ride out toward Augusta in wine country and grab dinner.”
“Excellent idea! The winding roads were like a dragon’s tail . . . perfect for this car.”
I pulled out of the driveway then glanced at my wife sitting next to me. “Roads beware,” I said with a grin.
The chromed spoke wheels glistened in the sunlight as we cruised down the highway, music blaring, no worries just a day of fun. Birds gliding effortlessly on thermals were a beautiful sight. They swooped up and down twisting and turning through the blue skies, flying to a low altitude overhead, then . . . splat–splat–splat, like machine gun fire. Instantly, my head was covered with bird poop, dripping on my glasses.
“What the hell?” I yelled.
My wife put her hand in front of her face, unable to control her laughter.
"It's not funny," I said.
She handed me a Kleenex. “It is from where I’m sitting.”
“What am I supposed to do with this perfumed tissue? I’m going to need a bath towel.”
“They say it’s a sign of luck.”
“Lucky for you sitting in the passenger seat. You don’t have a speck of bird poop on you.”
Pointing to the left my, wife said. “Pull into that gas station, so we can clean you up.”
I wheeled the shiny candy apple red sports car into the Shell station. Classic sport cars get attention everywhere, especially when the driver is splattered with bird poop.
As I pulled into a parking spot, a guy getting into his truck turned and said. “Nice car . . . might want to put the top up, lots of birds out today.” He laughed heartily as he climbed into his pickup.
After I faked a laugh at all the lame jokes from the unemployed comedians at the gas station, I cleaned up, then we headed back down the road. Getting some driving time in the Austin was important to me, so we passed a few of the closer wineries and drove over to Montelle Winery. They have a nice deck with magnificent scenery, and the food wasexcellent.
“I guess I’m pretty lucky after all,” I quipped.
Raising her glass of white wine in a toast. "Yes, I would say so. Happy Birthday, dear."
Just then an announcement came over the P.A. “Will the owner of the Austin Healey please come to the tasting room?”
I looked at my wife. “Is this another birthday surprise?”
“Nothing I know about. They probably just want to get a few pictures of you and your classic car, you know, to post on the wall.”
“That’s true. They do have a lot of cool photos they put on Facebook.”
I jumped up and headed toward the tasting room excited as a three year-old getting a prize from a kid’s meal.
As I walked into the room, I held up my hand and said. "You were looking for the owner of the Austin Healey?” Puffing my chest out. “ That's me."
“We wanted to let you know you have a flat tire.”
“What?” My shoulders drooped, deflated just like the tire. “Are you kidding me?”
“No sir, it’s the right rear. We can call AAA if you like?”
“Yes, I’d appreciate that. Let me know when they get here?” Bird poop! Sign of luck?. . . bad luck. I walked to the parking lot, not because I didn't believe, but I needed to see for myself. It was just as he said. I bent over to get a closer look and put my hand on the tire looking for a visible hole. Why I thought this important is beyond me. When I stood up, I scraped the back of my hand on the inside of the fender. Blood droplets started to form around the cut. Fabulous. What's next?
As I re-entered the winery, the owner noticed my injury and stopped to assist. He had an employee bring some bandages and gauze and helped me wrap my hand. I thanked him and went back to check on my wife.
“Where have you been? They brought the sandwiches about ten minutes ago. Yours is getting cold.”
“Perfect. It’s a long story.”
“What happened to your hand?”
“I cut it on the fender. Let me eat first, then I’ll tell you how lucky I am.”
After I finished my slightly cold sandwich, I briefed my wife on what transpired. She giggled but not in a supportive way. The waiter approached the table and told us AAA had arrived.
My wife got up to go with the waiter. "Sit and relax. I'll take care of this."
I waved as she walked away, “Thanks, Sweetie, you’re the best.”
***
About twenty minutes later my wife came back to the table. “AAA fixed the tire. It cost forty-five dollars. It was a roofing nail. See.” She opened her hand and displayed a two-inch nail with an orange washer.
“Yep, that’s a roofing nail . . . not lucky.”
“Do you want to keep it?” she taunted.
“No! Why would I keep it?”
“Souvenir?”
“No thanks, funny lady.” I shook my head. “It’ll be dark in a half hour, let’s pay and head back. We still have time to stop by my brother’s house. I want to show him my birthday present.”
Sunset driving was the best especially in a classic convertible. The air was cool and crisp, and the sun painted colorful orange designs on the muted clouds. Despite a few minor complications, this had been a great day.
Tooling down the winding roads was exhilarating. The tires hugged the road like a cougar climbs a tree. Nothing could ruin this moment. Boom! Crack! Rumble!
My wife looked over at me as she put her hood up. “Looks like it might rain. . . pop up thunderstorm. Don’t you love this St. Louis weather?”
Before she finished her last word, the skies opened up and it poured. We were a mile or so from the nearest gas station. When we finally pulled in to the Shell station, I was soaked. My wife was damp. She had a hooded jacket. She always had a jacket. I was never prepared like she.
It seemed pointless to put the top up now, since I was drenched from head to toe, but I did it anyway. As I pulled the top from the boot, the puddled water cascaded on to me like Niagara Falls. Just when I thought I’d been through it all.
We drove home in silence. My wife picked up her phone to listen to messages. I tried to ignore everything and enjoy the last few minutes of our drive home.
As we pulled into the driveway, I looked at my wife with a somewhat disappointed look, knowing the car was going back to tomorrow, “What time do we have to return the Austin?”
She turned to me, her lip pursed in a frown, which changed to a bright cheery smile. “The rental agency left a message on my phone. They have a problem.”
I grumbled. “Really, what now?”
“They had a small fire at the garage and can’t take the car back until Monday morning. They asked us to keep it until then . . . no extra charge.”
