This story took root weeks before this scene when Chris pulled into my driveway one afternoon. Our visits usually begin with smiling handshakes and his side-kick Millie wagging her tail like she just discovered a vault of tennis balls. This visit was different. Chris had an unfamiliar look of concern on his face. It was the same look I'd seen for years every time one of my drivers at work came into the office with a truck problem. It might be an air leak, a flat tire, or as in Chris' case, directionals that refused to cooperate. Those years of experience taught me when to put the comedic commentary on hold and re-emerge as the problem-solving wizard I purported to be. 

Man#1: "What's Up?" 

Man#2: "Blinkers." 

Unless we're telling tall tales or reliving our glory days, man-banter is normally sparse and uncomplicated.

To understand the underlying theme of this piece, I must explain that Chris' beloved 2000 Ford Taurus Wagon; "Mabel," is his pride and joy. She transports him from country to town with an occasional stop at Soave Faire for painting supplies. He has kept her in pristine condition with dreams of a future at the Amelia Island Concours d' Elegance. Fords were created to keep us on our toes and ready for the next mechanical "surprise." This particular head-scratcher was intermittent directionals that seemed to self-correct with a wiggle and waggle of the flasher relay tucked about two miles up under the dash. When you own a twenty-year-old classic, you fear car dealerships more than the dentist. You're always afraid the estimate will be more than the value of your prized possession. 

Since the directionals worked after some gentle persuasion, the diagnosis of two non-mechanics was that something was broken or loose behind the fuse panel. Still, we both agreed that maybe we should try a new flasher first. With an insane cost of more than a half tank of gas, we returned from the auto parts store with a new flasher and high hopes. 

You might think the painting above occurred at this point, but you'd be mistaken. The numbers on the new part were not exact matches; although it fit, it did not fix the problem. The man at the parts store had given no guarantees, though he was kind enough to take back the part. 

Jump ahead a few weeks. 

After we'd both pestered every car-loving friend we had looking for guidance and a miracle, Chris made one last desperate call to the NAPA Auto Parts store in Corinth. After answering several specific questions, the parts tech acknowledged that he thought he had the correct flasher we needed and that it was half the price of the one we'd tried a month earlier. So, with Millie the Wonder Dog perched between us in my pickup, we headed over the mountain in search of the Holy Grail. 

An hour later, with fingers crossed and a silent prayer, we plugged in the bargain flasher with matching numbers. Chris sat behind the wheel, and Millie and I stood at the back of Mabel, Chris and I hoping to see blinking lights, Millie wishing I'd throw the damn ball in my hand. 

Well, as you can see in my friend's story-by-paint, this one has a happy ending. The scene of a grown man grinning from ear to ear in relief, me, fist-pumping the sky, and a persistent border collie who finally got her wish, was a joy you can't swipe a card to buy. It can come on any given day in any number of ways; you simply have to embrace life enough to grab it when it breezes by. 

Here's hoping all your blinkers blink and that someone cares enough to throw you the ball.