Article by Kimberly Avery
There is no reasonable explanation for how I ended up barreling down Interstate 285 in a tow truck, smashed against the driver, and deeply regretting my decision to leave home on Friday afternoon.
I blame my husband. I had mentioned to him that "Big Bertha," our (only occasionally) trusty Suburban with 170 thousand miles, seemed to me to be barely hanging on.
"Perhaps you’re a little paranoid," he said dismissively.
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"Perhaps I have good reason to be paranoid," I snapped. "You remember that our children are still scarred from the Bertha incident last fall that left us stranded on the side of the highway while I was driving them to school?"
He laughed. "You know it wasn't the car breaking down that scarred them. It was your curlers, slippers, and robe combined with an unfortunately strong wind from passing cars that they are still working through with a counselor."
He had a point. After that, at my children's insistence, we implemented a new policy that I must wear pants and a bra before leaving the house to drive them to school.
Still, I could point to the many other times that Bertha had let us down. When we picked her up from the mechanic, my husband would pat her hood and say, "Now that we’ve fixed all the major things that could go wrong, Bertha is good as new." That was as ridiculous as saying my 82-year-old great aunt, who has had breast implants, liposuction, knee surgery, hip replacement, and angioplasty, was now ready for the Boston Marathon or the cover of Vogue.
With my appeals falling on deaf, or at least very wax-filled, ears and having no other means of transportation, Bertha, Ashley, and I headed down GA 400 to her cross-country track meet on the other side of Atlanta. Things took a turn for the worst about twenty-five miles later. A young man in a shiny corvette convertible pulled up next to me on the freeway and motioned for me to roll down my window. I could tell he was visibly annoyed holding his car steady next to mine as I manually moved the handle, stretched out the cramp in my arm, caught my breath, and rolled some more.
Finally, he yelled, "Hey lady, black smoke is coming out of your car's back!" I nodded thanks, but in my head, I was thinking, Look, smart guy. I just manually rolled down my window, the ceiling of my car resembles a circus tent, and my bumper is held together with bumper stickers. These things alone should signify that you were not born when this car was made. Do you think it should have the same emissions as a Prius?
About that time, Ashley choked out, "Something smells like a paper mill in our car!"
"Great! That's new."
I pulled off at the next exit and managed to coast into a tiny Georgia service station. Explaining my dilemma to the mechanic, I asked if he would mind taking a look.
"No problem," he said. It wasn't long before he returned with his brilliant analysis. "Yep! She's got black smoke coming out her backside."
"Is it drivable?" I asked.
"Well, here's the thing," he said. "White smoke? You can drive her. Gray smoke. You can drive her. But black smoke means it's burning really hot, and she may catch on fire while you are driving her."
I must admit that I pondered the words, “catch on fire,” for just a moment. I pictured Bertha on the side of the road burning like the Hindenburg and calculated that if I lived, that should guarantee me a new car. Finally, however, realizing I had Ashley with me, I came to my senses.
"I can call you a tow truck and get a rental car to pick you up." he offered. After twenty minutes, Bubba the rental car driver arrived in a car that reeked of cigarette smoke and body odor. Gasping for breath, Ashley and I rolled down our windows and hung our heads like Golden Retrievers going for a ride.
Arriving dizzy from lack of oxygen, I fumbled in my purse, searching for a tip. Unfortunately, all I had was a twenty. I reasoned that I was not tipping twenty dollars for a five-mile ride in a car that smelled like an armpit. Instead, I quickly hopped out and headed inside, trying not to make eye contact with the driver, but I could feel his disapproving stare on my back.
Inside, a perky agent greeted me with, "I will be with you in just a moment."
Fifty-one minutes later, I was called up to the counter. "Obviously, the word moment has a very loose definition here," I commented.
"Credit card and driver's license?" she motioned. I wearily produced both.
"I could put you in that brand-new SUV." She pointed out the window.
"Perfect. I'll take it," I sighed.
"But I can only rent to licensed drivers, and your license expired seven days ago."
"What!?"
I grabbed my license in disbelief. Yep, the thing had been good for ten years, but today it sheepishly admitted to being expired. "I still know how to drive!" I said sarcastically.
"That may be true, but according to this, you are no longer able to," she quipped just as sarcastically.
"That's just great!" I snapped. I tried calling my husband, but being unable to reach him, I turned back to the agent.
"We are closing momentarily, but our driver could give you a ride back to your car," she suggested.
"Is that momentarily like in a minute or fifty-one minutes from now as you seem so prone to defining it in the rental car world?" I asked. Her face, no longer perky, said she was not amused.
I peered through the glass door into the parking lot and saw Bubba still glaring at me from behind the wheel. "Yeah, Ok," I said, defeated. Then, taking a deep breath, I tried nonchalantly walking out and sliding into the back of his car again. This time I handed him the twenty and asked sweetly, "Could you take us back to our car, please?"
He snatched the money out of my hand and laughed. At this point, I was growing exhausted and irritated. "Couldn't get a car?" he snickered.
I looked at Ashley and raised my eyebrows to say go with it. I answered Bubba with the straightest face I could muster. "No, apparently, that stretch I served back in Federal Prison for attempted homicide, even though my own Mother deserved it, disqualified me. Who knew?"
When the color returned to Bubba's face, he quickly handed me my twenty saying, "It's on me," and even more rapidly returned us to our car, which was being towed.
"Do you need a ride?" the tow truck driver asked me. I thought of waiting for my husband or a friend to pick us up, but it was five o'clock, traffic was awful, and everything here in 'Mayberry' was closing, so I said, "Why not? Sure.”
So two Valium and two hours later, I pondered again how Ashley and I had ended up in a tow truck squished against its sweaty driver in stand still traffic regretting our decision to leave home. The whole incident is now etched in our minds as an incredibly memorable experience that she will likely spend the next year in therapy trying to forget.
Edited by Rebekah Crozier