About eight or ten years ago I was driving cab in Boston on a Sunday 24hr "iron man" shift. It was late in January and I pulled out of the lot at 247 Hyde Park Avenue in the cold 4:00 AM darkness and turned north. A little more than 22 hours of continuous driving later, about 2:30 Monday morning I dropped off a fare on Commonwealth Ave out near Cleveland Circle and decided to pack it in. Crossing Washington I pulled into the Econo Gas station and filled the tank. I pulled out, turned inbound and made the U-turn over the trolley tracks a few yards up the road and - uhoh - somethings wrong; I think my left front tire went flat as I'm sitting at Wash and Comm waiting for the green light so I can turn left. Gruesome thought. It's friggin' cold f'crissakes. I'm in my late fifties and feeling it and twentytwo straight hours of hacking the megalopolis is a thing I often do but by golly it can leave a body feeling a mite tired; gruesome the thought of changing tires. The light went green and I turned left then pulled to the side and hopped out. Nope. Tire is still round top to bottom. But something is wrong with the front end. Seriously wrong. The garage is maybe six miles off; cross Brookline on Washington to Brookline Village, left on Rte 9 to South Huntington down past The Monument to Forest Hills, zigzag at the station, five more blocks and home. I put it in gear and tenderly gingerly drive south, mostly staying under ten mph but the suspension is growling like it's auditioning for a seat in the BSO in their next production of Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring". The front wheel, little by little is getting stiffer; down South Street I no longer need to apply the brake, just come off the gas and it stops in place...
But...
We make it. Turn right into the lot and all I got to do is park the damned thing. I turn to the left to get square with the building then to back against the chain link fence but THUNK! Halfway into the turn the ball joint gives out all the way. I get out and look and there's the front wheel caved in at a steep angle making an exquisite visual rhyme with cab set askew at a perfect 45 degrees in the middle of the lot like a diva taking a bow at the final curtain...
O yeah!
Pearly Sweetcakes and a coolwater sandwich on a Sunday-go-to-meeting-bun!
Twentytwo hours I rode that old shitbox beater of taxicab all through the rough and icy streets of Bahhstin with a worn out ball joint ready to give.
And give it did. Half way and not until I'd done my full days work and filled the tank. And then it dangled for six miles of dramatic tension to make it to the checkered flag and not one foot more...
O Yeah!
Proof of mind over matter?
No.
Of course not.
Neither in forensic nor scientific terms is it proof of anything whatsoever.
Nor is it an isolated incident; I got a full deck with Jokers of such rare vignettes, a significant data base I can use for further research. I'm not going to say I make definitive statements about this but the database is too large to be dismissed as coincidence
Gibby...
You can howl "NO OT'S" at the top of your lungs until the Dodgers return to Brooklyn or the Vikings win the Super Bowl but you ain't gonna get that lame crap past me chum...