Whoosh!
This flurry of orangish-red smoke fluttered out of the controller for my scooter minutes after L had connected it for me. Story of my life!
My heart seemed to plunge into the recesses of my stomach as D raced my scooter out of the house, tendrils of smoke following after him. The door closed and they let it cool off. Meantime I’m lying on the couch freaking out. My pseudo legs died. They were burning out in the cold, and I’m wondering how I’m going to move. How am I getting to work! They just laid off two people. Would I be next?
Since December my scooter has been on the fritz. It would stall going forward, but reverse worked like a charm. I’ve become the queen of backwards, edging around corners and parallel parking like Evil Knieval. I’m that good!
I’ve replaced the cable, the wig wam, and moved on to the motherboard of scooters. Insurance doesn’t care that I need to work. They require three days to make a decision, and so far my request for a rental has been met with a denial. So, I’ve taken to fixing things myself. That was until yesterday and the adventure with the sparking controller.
Fortunately, the fire was internal. My old, spazzy controller is back where it belongs, but it’s begun to rattle in reverse. The replacement controller did that too. I’m probably sitting on a ticking time bomb. But I have to got to work.
I’m disabled and my artificial legs are dying, but I’ll still go to work because I refuse to live in absolute poverty due to government requirements. I’ll keep trucking along till that rental is approved and I get word that my new scooter is on the way. If medicaid approves it. If it’s not too expensive to cover the difference. Because, damn it, I need to work!
I will of course now stop messing with scooter repairs. The billowing smoke clouds that erupted from my baby will forever marr my memories. That and the smell.