SEATTLE, Washington The truck's ignition rasps like a grounded diver clearing her sore throat.
I've waited five weeks to finish the Post-Intelligencer scuba story. A flat battery will not stop proceedings.
Luckily, my Aunt Maura slept on the couch, after dinner at Pasta Bella and cocktails at Hazelwood. She lives in Mead, Washington about seven hours away so we don't hang out enough. She's here when I need her, though. Right on 57th street in her PJs, fingers sooty from the engine block.
"Positive, positive, negative, negative," we chant, cabling the two vehicles.
"I haven't jumped anything in 15 years," I muse.
She says: "I only just learned how and I haven't tried it yet. I'll be so proud if this works."
My uncle struggling to wake yells from the cellphone speaker, "did you clean the contacts?"
Nah. Who has the time? We crank the keys.
The truck purrs.
My neighbor Andy appears and stashes a self-jumper-gizmo in the passenger seat. "When are you home?" he shouts, as I pull away, mindful that assignments can take weeks, if not months.
"Tonight. I'm diving the Hood Canal."