Part 1 of 2
It was the rust of times; it was the engine module control panel of times. There is a well acknowledged belief… that a woman in possession of a modest income must be in want of stability. It is an inevitability that what is believed to be reliable will eventually be exposed as the delusion it is.
Everything happens in threes. If only two dreadful events occur, it is imperative that we force another evil into the category, bringing the total to three. In my current state of affairs, I have secured three obstacles with my bungee cord of life. In doing so, I avoid anything else from blowing up. Because three is a magic number. This philosophy, all I have left, is sound, and my sanity needs its veracity to carry on.
My terrible triage today is auto-related. How flipping boring is this post going to be? Read on to unearth the enigma of my automotive conundrum.
(That is my teaser.)
Preface: So What?
There is a reason for my… overreaction to car problems, and it is undeniably compelling.
I was once young. It’s true. I had a boyfriend, whom could objectively be called a jackass. His best friend needed to sell his car. I needed a car. In the spirit of solidarity, that for women falls under the umbrella of “chicks before dicks” I was a victim of the male equivalent, “dicks will be dicks.” They sold me a rusted Dodge Charger that was… although younger than I was, past its prime, with a gaping rust hole in the floorboard on the driver’s side. You could see the ground. If you dropped something, it was gone forever. It reminded me of The Flintstones, whose feet ran under their prehistoric vehicle to propel it forward.
The rust hole was so large that a car thief, assuming they were up-to-date on their tetanus shot, could climb in through it. But once inside, they’d likely decide to leave it untouched and exit through the door—maybe even tucking a few pity dollars in the visor. My bigger concern, however, was the possibility of rats turning my only possession into their personal nest, especially since I parked near a dumpster at the restaurant where I worked.
“How cute, it’s like a weird sunroof! How much do you want for it?”
When I was handed the keys in exchange for my cash, they informed me that my new rad-ride had an oil leak, and I would need to add oil every time I put gas in the car.
“It’s not a big deal. Oil is cheap. When you get gas, add oil, and it will be fine, Lydia!”
I don’t remember how long I drove the car… a month, a year? The car’s demise was imminent. I knew that. Anyway, one gloomy night, I was driving on the expressway alone when the motor got loud. It was so deafening I had to turn the radio all the way up. I’m no quitter, so I proceeded on my road to nowhere. Then it started convulsing…. My rubber bracelets and permed hair bounced. I made it to the shoulder before the engine locked up. There is no going back from that—no oil, no more Dodge Charger. This was the dinosaur era, before cell phones. My choice was to either walk or wait. Hiking along the highway shoulder in the dark was a hard no. I put on my hazard lights and waited.
This was me living my best existential life. The car shook every time a truck passed. For that reason, I stepped out and sat on the metal guardrail farther from the traffic, in a safer spot.
Soon after, an eighteen wheeler rumbled to a stop behind me. Through the intensity of its headlights, the outline of a shadowy form, a massive figure, emerged, approaching closer… and closer. From his muddy work boots up were oil-stained jeans with a chain swaying from his belt loop, a grime-covered flannel shirt, and a long, bushy beard. A lit cigarette butt dangled from his mouth, its faint glow illuminating his weathered face. As the bill of his tattered trucker cap lifted, and I met piercing eyes that burned straight through my soul. My heart froze, and like the engine of my Dodge Charger, seized. I had one thought: This is it. I’m dead. He had nearly reached me when a highway “minute man” pulled up in front of my car.
My hero told the truck driver to move along. If not for him, you would not be reading this narrative… (because it would be different, obvi.) He dropped me off at a pizza dive that had a payphone. (GenZ-Google it.)
The next day, a “friend” I worked with told me she saw me sitting on the guardrail and waved as she drove by. It never dawned on her to pull over.
Anyway, that was a million years ago. Perms and rubber bracelets never cycled back in style. The rest of that story is unremarkable, but it had a lasting impact on me. I lose all rational thinking when a dashboard warning light indicates a problem. And this month? I’ve already hit my quota of three disasters.
To be continued…
A lot from Lydia 