Last night I drove my well-worn Joycian rut out to Rockville for fire class, my one regular experience with outer-Beltway commuter hell. As I passed over a particularly cavelike series of DC potholes, I heard a clang and the grating sound of dragging metal. I pulled into a side street and walked to the rear of the car, where my unpleasant expectations were realized: the tailpipe had snapped at the clamp that held it to the car's undercarriage, and was dangling down to the pavement. Not only was it utterly useless, but the muffler itself was unsupported and dangling precariously -- in a few more pothole smacks, it too would be hitting the street.

It's been a stressful week, and under such circumstances I have been known to throw cussing tantrums of opulent duration. Fire fighting class that night was going to be a prep session for the mid-term exam. This test is one of the primary reasons that life feels like a large grain of sand in a red and tearing eye. I could not afford to miss class.

Usually my fits of anger are attenuated somewhat by the presence of other people; I dislike losing control of myself in company and so I rein in my emotions after spouting a few filthy lines of invective and punching some nearby inanimate objects. Alone, there is little to stop me. There were times in the deserts of Senegal when a broken-down motorcycle could reduce me to jumping up and down in fury over the frail machine, because there were no trees or other nearby objects handy to absorb an attack. I knew I looked ridiculous and I didn't care. My relief valves blew and there was nothing to do but tussle with the faceless dummy of the universe until I fell calm again.

But this time the tantrum never came. There wasn't time for the luxury of getting seriously pissed off, and generally I get enraged about things that don't ultimately matter much. Recent tantrum topics have included my car getting towed and the Nigerian Embassy giving me a hard time when I tried to renew my tourist visa. When really bad things happen, I don't mess with petty fits. One of the reasons I like the ambulance so much is that I can leapfrog over the small insecurities and disappointments of everyday life, the kind of shit that flusters me, and make solid decisions that count for something.

I crawled under the car and began wrestling the one end of the tailpipe that was still attached from its clamp. The metal was so hot that I was forced to retrieve a flannel shirt from the car to protect my hands. Once the tailpipe was free, I stopped to consider the problem of the muffler. It would never make it to Rockville in its current configuration. I needed something to secure it to the nearby clamp, or I would have to return home and bag on class.

I opened the back hatch of the car and began rummaging. I considered using my ice skate laces, but rejected them because of the possibility that they might catch fire when wrapped around the hot exhaust piping. Fortunately, the back of the car was full of clothing that Susan and I had intended to donate to a charity yard sale. What I really needed was a coat hanger, but there were none there. I looked up from the car and took a quick look through some nearby trash cans -- nothing useful. Returning to the bags of throwaway clothes, I discovered a small leather purse. I cut off its strap and dove back under the car to tie off the muffler. I figured a leather strap would be less likely to catch fire; moreover, I would probably be alerted to any flames by the frantic honks of other motorists. I didn't stop to consider how I would put out a fire, should one ignite. You just can't think too much in certain situations.

Having successfully MacGuyvered the situation, I jumped in the car and resumed my trip to the training academy. I felt rather proud of having engineered a solution to the problem instead of limping home or calling for help. For a few miles I cast frequent concerned glances into the rear view mirror, fully expecting to see smoke or a column of sparks shooting out of the back of the vehicle, but my repair held. I made it to fire fighting class and back through the pothole slalom without bursting into flames or seeing the remaining excretory tubing of my car deploy dramatically onto the pavement.

I am strong. I am handy. I am Man!