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Friday would have been a good day. I had a productive day at work, and a nice lunch out, and the terrifying thought that I might not be able to get home at a reasonable hour due to bad weather was resolved relatively quickly. It had been a rainy and windy day, which knocked some trees down across the railroad tracks that I take into and out of the city daily. Luckily, someone figured out that a chainsaw and an hour or two is all it takes to move a tree out of the way of a train; and by the time I headed home, trains were running on schedule. So, you know, everything was in line to be a good day.

When my train arrived at the station, I prudently made my way to my truck in the parking lot. I say prudently because there are various types of train riders, and it's important to know which type you are.

There are the weirdos who would jump from the moving train to the platform if the conductors would let them, but settle for crowding around the door before we've even left the next-to-last stop just so that they are as close to the front of the line as possible. After the train stops, they basically run to their cars (would you include power walking here?) and are usually driving out of the parking lot, talking on their cell phones, and putting on their seatbelts all at the same time. Apparently they have some very important business to attend to and being 2 minutes later is just going to kill them.

Then you have the prudent walkers. We take whatever place in line we naturally get by virtue of where we're sitting on the train. Social custom says that if you're in line and someone at a seat in front of you is waiting to get in line, you let them in; so while we may try to sit near the exit to avoid a long wait, we don't sweat it if the seats are taken, and we don't rush up to the door 2 stops ahead of our own to be first in line. Once off the train, we walk with purpose. Our mentality is that there's no room on the sidewalk for dilly-dallying, and if you're going to go slow, for heaven's sake, move to the right. Walk at a quick but comfortable clip (prudently!), but don't run, that makes you a weirdo. Oh, and put your seatbelt on before you start driving, dummy.

And then there's everyone else. I wouldn't know anything about these people, because they are usually behind me. I assume they are drifters or vagrants, have no place to be, and no reason to hurry. Or perhaps they just like going slower, and that's fine too.

Except occasionally one of them will be fortunate enough to score a seat by the door, netting them an early place in line to disembark. And then she walks slowly, on the left, with a wide stance that prevents passing and an ever-widening gap between her and the prudent walker in front of her after the sidewalk merges to one lane to go under the bridge. Her wiry hair's roots showing that she's in need of another die-job, and her feet cocked out to either side a few degrees that make her not only appear to have duck-feet, but also give her a certain duck-like waddle. You'd just like to push…

So my train got back to town right on time and I made my way prudently back to my truck, backed into a parking spot near the exit of the parking lot, but no so close that people who reach their cars before me have formed a line preventing me from pulling out and causing me extra wait time — you know… about 6-8 spots in.

I climb in, set my umbrella on the floor of the passenger side and my bookbag on the passenger seat, buckle my safety belt, and turn the key. Whir-ir-ir-ir. Whir-ir-ir-ir. Whir-ir-ir-ir. Truck's dead! Oh, yay. My 2nd break down in as many months, though not in the same vehicle. Just my luck.

I called my Dad to see if he had any insight, but he confirmed what I had assumed: the problem was likely fuel-related. I called Megan to let her know she needed to come pick me up, and then called my mechanic to get a tow and make an appointment to have it looked at. I made arrangements to leave the door unlocked — it wasn't as if someone could drive my truck off — so the tow truck didn't need me to stick around, and then headed home. On Saturday, while we were down in Maryland helping my Mom pack her things and move to Annapolis, my mechanic called and let me know it was a dead switch (perhaps an inertial switch? I don't recall exactly) that had died and in the process prevented power from getting to the fuel pump. Lucky for me, no parts shop in town carries it, and neither does the local Ford dealer. They've ordered it from the manufacturer, but in the meantime I'm without wheels.

Megan drove me to the train station this morning and the plan is to do the same thing again tomorrow. So yeah, aside from that, Friday would have been a good day.