When I try to fix my own problems...

A man is driving down a long dirt road. He wipes beads of sweat off his forehead, then dries the back of his hand on his stained and tattered utility jeans. The thermometer reads 90. The AC whines and sputters overhead.

The man glances down at his watch. He frowns, and eases the gas pedal down a little. The speedometer climbs in steady increments. The rear-view mirror reads all-clear. The man's face relaxes a little, and the furrows in his brow recede into pleasant, weather-worn wrinkles.

Then a loud BANG rattles through the windows. The man looses control of his truck for a moment, and spins off the road into tall grass. He utters and involuntary curse as the truck grinds to a halt.



Then the man gets out to inspect the damage. A few new scratches, a blown-out tire, not too bad.

The man fidgets, crunching dry plant matter underfoot, and reaches into his right front pocket. He withdraws an old snakeskin wallet, and a key. He opens the wallet, but doesn't put the key back. Pulls out the first card. Crisp, white, band new. It reads:

The Big Man Towing Company: Give us a call. We'll pick you up anywhere, whether or not you're on the map. One free ride to any destination.

The man scratches at his ragged, red beard. Puts the card back. Pulls out the next one.

The Big Man Repair Shop: We can fix anything. Engine, body, tires, paint job. Free on your first seventy- times- seven visits.

The man puts the cards, and the wallet, back in his pocket with a sigh. He walks to the back of his truck, palms the key, and opens it. He removes some equipment, kneels down next to the busted tire, and starts to work.

It takes nearly twenty minutes before the tire is patched up and ready to go. The man is sweating uncontrollably now, and his watch lies on the ground beside him, unheeded. He picks it up again, and slaps it onto his wrist, before climbing back into the cab and resuming his journey.

The truck putters along, and the man rehearses in his mind every little excuse he can think of to tell his boss when he finally shows up to work. Curses. What a rotten day.

Suddenly, all the little gadgets on the dashboard start going haywire. All the doors are open. The truck is traveling ten miles an hour. Zero. A hundred. The gas is empty.

Then the engine cuts out. The truck slowly stops itself, as hot, electric smoke trickles out of the hood, enveloping the vehicle and the man inside it.

The man slams his fist into the steering wheel. He has no words. He climbs out of the truck, for the second time in a day. He lifts the hood, scalding his hands.

Again, he pulls the wallet out of his front pocket. He thinks about opening it, but instead, shoves it into a pipe to keep the smoke from spreading while he works.

He sets to work, tinkering with the engine. Every touch burns his hands worse. He never finishes.