Greek tragedies are filled with heroes. And they all share something in common. A fatal flaw.
My flaw was walking away when something got tough. This was one of the first times I could actually see me doing it.
I made it about a half a block when we started up the hill. I was carting close to six hundred pounds of prime American, corn fed Democracy, slowly towards Chinatown. And they were already unhappy.
I was straining. I was wheezing. I was shaking. For a moment I envisioned somehow making it to the top of the hill, only to begin descending the other side, brakes smoking, picking up speed, hurtling to a fat, gravy laden death.
Oh, I don't think so.
I locked the emergency brake, and, legs shaking, dismounted the vehicle. The woman was making sounds of protest from somewhere in the folds of her neck, and hubby was grunting with displeasure.
"Folks, we've got a little mechanical...whew...problem..., someone...hang on...will be with you shortly."
And I walked away.
I had a moment of clarity and realized this was how I dealt with anything even remotely difficult, that I could turn around, get back on, and finish what I started.
Or, I could get a beer and look in the want ads for work.
That may have been the coldest beer I ever tasted.
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