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I often wish I was a mechanic instead of a writer, so I could fix things. It would save me a lot of repair bills. Or maybe not.

Consider Bob. He’s a mechanic in Southern Illinois. He had to put away a shipment of oil and antifreeze in a cabinet in a dark hallway. He unlocked the cabinet and started shoving bottles of oil inside when he felt something moving on his shoes and the lower part of his jeans.

Bob saw he was standing on the tail of a four-foot black snake. The snake attacked. The irate serpent didn’t hit any flesh, but Bob nearly jumped out of his skin. He tried to grab it and the snake slithered into a hole in the wall.

Bob didn’t have time to catch it. He had to fix three flat tires. All the tires had nails in them. Bob couldn’t find the tool for cutting off the plug, so he grabbed a single-edge razor blade. It sliced into his thumb.

Bob mopped up the blood, bandaged his hand, and fixed the tires.

He was relieved when the day was over, and eager to get home. He was almost to his driveway when a light came on in the dashboard. His car had electrical problems. Bob turned off the radio and the lights and coasted to his house. His car died. The alternator was shot.

But he arrived home safely. That was the only lucky thing that happened to him all day.

(The opinions expressed are not necessarily those of St. Louis Public Radio.)

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