Dad's luck

People often tell me I'm a lucky man. And when I say "people," I'm obviously talking about my mother. She watches me as I bumble my way through life, dodging this, ducking that, running headlong into the other, always somehow finding my way out of a jam. (Or, as happens more often, having the way out dropped into my lap.) She always shakes her head and says, "Well, Andrew, you certainly inherited your father's luck." Apparently, Dad does the same thing. He and I just roll through life, sanguine as you please, and when disaster strikes, we have to scramble to rebuild the dike. But we manage it somehow, either by hook or by crook. Pop even jokes to Ma that his middle name is "Damage Control." Looking at some of the tight spots I've been in, I can't help but think Dad's passed something on to me resembling chronic good fortune. But there's no use denying it any longer. I'm broke. Not quite flat broke, to be sure; I have enough money for maybe two months' rent, if I was living in an apartment. Possibly three, if I was in a cardboard box by the reservoir. So when I finally decided two nights ago that, yes, my computer had picked up a virus, my motherly caring side naturally wasn't the first on the scene. Nice going, bozo, my inner accountant groused. How you gonna pay for this? You might have to hawk those Monty Python DVDs after all. And ya thought you were out of the woods... I gave it my best shot. I deleted all my temporary Internet files. I ran Ad-Aware and AVG, my anti-spyware and anti-virus programs respectively. Nothing doing. The virus was still in there somewhere. My folks happened to have a copy of Kaspersky Internet Security 2010 lying around, so I installed that and gave it a go. It detected the virus, but it couldn't delete it: it kept freezing up. Well, shoot. I heaved a sigh, got up the next morning, and took my poor abused Toshiba into town to be fixed. Repairs would have cost me $200, which, as I've already pointed out, I don't have. It was right about then that a small dose of my genetically-enhanced luck kicked in. As I am standing in front of the repair counter, filling out the paperwork to have my laptop diagnosed and cleaned, my brand-new cell phone starts ringing. I put down the pen and answer it. It's my best buddy John, whose house I am going to for a barbecue later in the evening. He actually works at the same computer repair shop where I've taken my laptop. He's not there, though; he's home. He has strep throat, but he hasn't called off the party. He just wants to remind me that I don't have to bring any side dishes; he's got it covered. Bring a bottle if I so desire; he's got Scotch and beer out the wazoo. I say okay, thank him, hang up, and keep filling out paperwork. I finish the forms and hand them to the repair person. Just as she's beginning to fill in fields on her computer screen, my cell phone rings again. It's Dad. He wants to know what's wrong with my computer. I tell him that I've only just finished the paperwork, and diagnostics haven't commenced yet. I'll call him back when I hear anything. Dad says okay, and we hang up. The repair woman is almost finished filling in those fields, and is about to lay hands on my laptop and start plugging in wires, when my phone rings again. It's John. It's loud in the store and I can barely make out what he's saying, but I do catch a few revolutionary words: "...bring your computer over to my house and I'll fix it." I don't remember exactly what I said in reply. My mind had gone somewhat blank. Accepting $200 of repair fees and then finding out you're reprieved five minutes later...that pulls the rug out from under your brain, so to speak. I stammered a thank you, thought up some feeble excuse for the repair lady ("Uh, can we hold on for a moment? I've just thought of something else I might try"), and boogied. The expression "weight lifted from one's shoulders" gets tossed around a tad excessively these days. It's lost its power as a result. As I stepped out of the shop into the bright winter sun, I realized how powerful it truly was. I felt, quite literally, as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. There was a little extra spring to my step, a noticeable lightness in my innards. I wouldn't have to spend $200. That wasn't as good as being in love, true. But whew anyway. Shopping for a bottle for John's party was all the sweeter. In the end, I settled on some tequila and margarita mix. Who says you can't have margaritas in January, anyway? I ask ya, who? I went home and dumped some stuff off (including that long sought-after library copy of The Epic of Gilgamesh). Then I drove back to John's house with my diseased computer. He popped in a repair CD, ran some programs, isolated the virus, and killed it. Then (over the course of the party) we ran some more scans and tests. Both of us pronounced the machine cured at a quarter to two, after a spotty all-night vigil. Maybe Dad's karma rubbed off on me when he called right before John did? Who knows? Thanks to the help of a friend, I was able to get the dang virus off the computer for free. John, you're a lifesaver. I take back what I said about you being a square because you won't go to Australia with me. And I got to party in between the scans we ran, too. Beat that for luck.