Ego Bruises

Happy Thursday!

You are few hours away from your weekend. As you start smiling .. gleefully .. and fill your canister of happiness .. Allow me to top up your can with a chance of giggles at my expense.

When you splurge on something like a high-end pickup truck, you expect the kind of service that makes you feel like a VIP. Not just any VIP - I'm talking Madonna-level, “hold my umbrella and feed me grapes” kind of service.

A few years back, I convinced myself that I needed an indulgence. Not therapy, not a vacation - nope, I needed a full blooded American pickup truck. And not just any truck, but one so shiny, dripping in red and obnoxiously large, it looked like it had rolled straight out of a country song music video from Detroit. Excessive and unexplainable.

Fast forward to last week, one fateful evening in front of my flat. The truck, my glorious chariot, decided it was time for a mutiny. The doors wouldn’t unlock. I was stranded in a side street lane outside the building at 8 p.m .. the golden hour for existential crises.

Now, with me was my building caretaker. A very calm, resigned, silent guy whose only hobby seemed to be waiting for me to park on the street and carry my bags, whether it be shopping bags or my office backpack .. like he was auditioning for a role as my shadow. I hate it when people carry my bags .. makes me feel like a pharaoh being prepped for the afterlife, but this guy insisted.

So, there I was, pressing the remote key, and guess what? Nada. Zip. That red truck sat there like an immovable monument to American excess. I called the service center, expecting some high-tech wizardry. Instead, the guy tells me there’s a manual key hidden inside the remote. A hidden key! Genius, right? Except it didn’t work.

I called him back. “Hey, buddy, the key’s jamming.” He asks, “Did you try clockwise? How about anti-clockwise?” I tell him, “I’ve tried clockwise, anti-clockwise, and even the hokey-pokey. This thing’s dead.”

“Impossible,” he says. Oh, great, now I’m debating with Captain Obvious. At this point, my patience is running thinner than my phone battery. I barked at him to escalate this to a senior guy or some lead technician. Told him I’d give him 30 min to figure it out or else. Or else what? I had no idea. But it sounded threatening enough.

I stomped back home, rummaging through the fridge and hogged down some Chinese food my blessed wife had ordered. It was sweet-and-sour chicken and revenge. Delicious combo.

Then the service guy calls again, practically begging. “Go back to the truck,” he pleads, “and turn the key anti-clockwise. Very, very s-l-o-w-l-y.” Oh, sure. Slow-motion key turning. Why didn’t I think of that?

So, I go back, and my caretaker lights up the keyhole with his phone torch like it’s the climactic scene in a detective movie. I try it—s-l-o-w-l-y—and surprise! Still jammed.

By now, I’m ready to fling the key into the desert.

As I’m about to call a Uber .. a blurry thought elbows its way into my mind. Earlier that morning I parked the truck on a speed breaker hump. I even chuckled at how the truck looked like it was bench-pressing the hump.

But now? No hump. I glance at the truck. Something feels off. I check the plates. Wrong number.

Yep. It wasn’t my truck .. Just another obnoxiously shiny red pickup, sitting there all innocent-like while I performed an off-broadway tragedy on the sidewalk. My truck? About a dozen cars down the street, glowing smugly under a streetlight. My mind reeled liked a time machine .. that morning, I had parked away and told myself .. when the opportunity presents itself, I'll bring the pickup back to my usual spot.

I waved to the caretaker and strolled over as if I meant to do all of this. Casual. So cool I was practically frosty.

On the way home, the service guy called. “Mudeer, Everything okay?” he asked, probably imagining lawsuits or my angelic face at his doorstep in the morning. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “All under control now. Thanks for the help.”

The next morning at the bakala opposite my building, it was a comedy roast. As I walked in to grab a drink, the cashier grinned knowingly. The store helpers popped their heads out like meerkats at feeding time. Turns out my caretaker, that silent bag-carrying assassin, had broadcast the whole fiasco that evening itself. A private matter between me and my truck, and now the neighbourhood's entertainment special.

Moral of the story? Never let someone else carry your bags. It’s bad for your reputation.

P.S. I did apologize to the service guy later. Last I heard, he opened an sandwich cafeteria shop on Salwa road. Bless him.