On Saturday, eleven of my closest friends flooded [no pun intended] into my basement to help clean it out for moving to Chattanooga. That was a huge blessing in and of itself. I really could not ask for better friends. Who else would clean out a wet, moldy basement for only pizza and drinks? Super-mega-thanks to Mike, Timy, Kyle, Chris, Perry, Breck, Aimee, Dwayne, Cecil, Phil, JT and Andy.
As the day wrapped, we ceased the cleaning of the basement and switched gears to move all the boxed-up items to storage. God bless Andy; he allowed us to borrow his truck for the purpose of speed and efficiency of moving. There we were, a three-car cavalcade, driving back and forth to the storage unit to unload. Of course, when you get six or seven college guys and two flatbed carts together, hilarity ensues... after the jump.
On the last load, we loaded up Pac-Man and I started the car to head out. In true retro fashion, Pac-Man made a growling noise such as he was named for and promptly died. I tried to restart him, to no avail. Mike, the resident mechanic, took a look and advised to go ahead and take our load to storage, then come back and try to start Pac-Man again. So we did.
Upon our return, Pac-Man was still in a crappy mood. He refused to start and resigned me to leaving him overnight. Sunday, he still refused to start. As of today, he is still sitting in my yard at home. This afternoon I will go home and try to boost him off and check the alternator.
Until then, Pac-Man died in a truly poetic Pac-Man fashion: with a growl, facing a ghost.