Further adventures

    See what happened was this: as soon as I got home from walking back from the mechanic's place, my dad called to say he had an appointment with a gastroenterologist for 11 that morning. I had to break it to him that I had no car and suggested he call my brother William. He did but couldn't reach him, so suggested that his sweetheart Margaret come pick me up and then I could take him to the appointment. I agreed, she did and I did.
    The gastroenterologist's office was at the far east end of town. Not getting out there very often, I had no idea that I-20 was under construction. Heavy construction. Heavy, heavy construction. Basically my entrance ramp became its own little Interstate, running for miles as one lane between Jersey barriers while the other lane minded its own business a hundred or more feet away to my left. Margaret's car has its own ideas on steering, but for once it behaved itself. Dad said that Margaret would have had a hell of a time getting out there. I found the trip kind of exhilarating.
    At the doctor's, they made him fill out the usual pile of forms, but it wasn't as bad as usual. Then we waited. And waited. After an hour, he was allowed back to have his blood pressure and other vital signs checked and to answer more health-related questions. Then we finally got to see the doctor.
    To make a long story short, the doctor is a great guy, but couldn't do anything for Dad that day. He scheduled Dad for an endoscopy Friday (after I begged and wheedled; he would have made it the Friday after) and noted that there are some conditions he might be able to correct during the endoscopy. But the likelihood is that it would be two Mondays after before he knew any results and could do anything to help. Which sucks rocks royally, but is still earlier than the initial appointment the other gastroenterologist would give Dad. The health care system in this country is totally broken, but that is a rant for another day.
    I took Dad home (using non-construction-addled Percival Road instead of the Interstate) and then had a problem. My car wasn't ready yet, I was miles from home, but quite near the mechanic. I asked Margaret if I could borrow her car for a few hours. So long as I would run an errand for her, she had no problem. So I ate my lunch, ran her errand (paying a bill at a department store) and was coming out of the department store when I got a voicemail that my car was ready. I took Margaret her car, strolled down the hill to the garage, paid, and now... I got brakes!