Today, I have to get over to the car-repair place to have a blinking air-bag light attended to. I took the car to get its yearly inspection yesterday and the blinking air-bag light meant that the car was rejected for a new, yearlong sticker.
When I said to the inspector that I had been driving around for years with that blinking light and no one had complained, he said the state had changed the laws ... now any blinking light was cause for rejection and failure. He asked if I'd like his mechanics to take a look and, by implication, fix the problem: "It'll cost a minimum of $85," he said with a straight face. I said I would take it to my mechanic, which is what I plan to do this morning. $85 sounds like highway robbery to me.
But besides wanting to save some money, I also like going to my mechanic. He is a guy I honestly admire and respect. As I get older and what were once "heros" slip off my mental radar, my mechanic remains someone I might aspire to be or be like. I have a serious place in my heart for this guy.
And yet, for reasons I cannot fathom, I really have a hell of a time remembering his name. Each time I go to him, I have to take minutes finding the past experience that will allow me to say his name with certainty and comfort. It's utterly ludicrous since he has one of the simplest names in the world ... why the hell do I keep forgetting it?! His name is Jose Gonzales, a veritable John Doe of a Hispanic name. Easy-peasy ... and yet I forget and forget and forget. It truly symies me.
Jose is friendly and honest and hard-working and the two of us share an opinion of those qualities. I enjoy being in his company. It feels good ... sort of like being "at home." If I had to pick a bodhisattva on my horizon, Jose would be front and center. And yet I forget his name. What the fuck?!
But maybe if I write this blog entry, I'll remember more quickly. Who in the world forgets their bodhisattvas?!