The Second Day of Driving To TX
This was originally written on Friday 05.15.2001
I think that my girlfriend’s two black cats did me in. While visiting her the past two days, the seemingly innocent creatures crossed my path dozens of times. Now I am paying the price. Either that or my response of “Are there pirates in hell?” to this morning’s CB evangelist’s hellfire and brimstone rhetoric was offensive enough to incur the wrath of some higher power.
I woke up this morning feeling pretty good despite the utter craziness of yesterday. It was around 6 o’clock, the sun beginning its evening descent towards the horizon as the river of steel began to overflow its concrete banks. We had cut south down the highway; starting in Columbus, then running through Louisville and Nashville before turning west towards the great Mississippi and the city of Memphis. We were perhaps fifteen miles from our final destination of West Memphis Arkansas when our smooth 80 mph cruise changed to the abrupt start and stop of city traffic. As the traffic picked up again, I realized that my vehicle was not joining them. I made a quick check to make sure that I had not knocked the car into neutral but the flashing lights on the dashboard told a different woeful tale. I managed to guide my crippled ride to the edge of the overpass and send a helpless squawk to Josh over the CB. I turned off the engine and was not surprised when the car would not start again.
I stepped from my car into the hot late afternoon sun. I laughed a bit. I guess I am not entirely my father’s son. He would have been livid by now. What was I to do? Nothing. Nothing, but wait for some help to arrive and hope for the best. Eventually a cop rolled up and uttered something almost unintelligible about roadside assistance. Over the course of the next two hours I spent stranded on the roadside I saw at least half a dozen police cards drive by. None of them even slowed. I’m not sure if it was because my break down was already reported or just general apathy, but it tended to get frustrating.
Eventually a big yellow truck filled with two smiling men pulled up behind me. They stumbled slowly towards the car, their continuing smiles making them look dopey and stupid (or perhaps I was more irritated than I initially thought). They popped open the trunk, fiddled around with a few things and even added some gas to the tank. It was an exercise in futility but I wasn’t going to object given gas prices, however. Eventually accepting failure, the dynamic duo let me use their cell phone to call AAA for a tow truck. By then Josh had managed to swing back around the crowded highway, so we sat on the concrete divider, ate the last of my road fuel pretzels and made snide comments about passersby. No one is as adept at making snide comments as Josh. We waited and waited for more than an hour for the tow truck to arrive. I finally called AAA once again to check on the status of the driver when, surprise surprise, the tow truck pulled in front of me. A large man drove it, rolls of fat spilling forth from his sweat drenched muscle shirt. On his arm were tattooed the words “dirty deeds done dirt cheap”. Whooboy. He pulled my car onto the bed of the tow truck and I climbed into the passenger seat. The driver then proceeded to get out of the cab, lift the hood of the tow truck and begin tinkering around. When the tow truck driver needs to look under the hood, that is generally not a good sign. Luckily, he eventually returned to the cab, satisfied that all things mechanical were in order, and we began a drive to the nearest garage. During the drive, the tow truck man talked incessantly on his cell phone and I was surprised that he was able to deliver my car and my person safely to the garage.
He dumped my crippled Escort wagon in a vacant spot in the Firestone service center’s parking lot. The garage had just closed and one of the mechanics ambled towards us. In a dripping southern accent that was nearly unintelligible to my Yankee ears he asked what the problem was. I tried to explain the incident as best I could, but I fear my knowledge of the automobile is laughable. He instructed me to open the hood and try to start the car. He gleefully proclaimed that the problem was surely the timing belt and told me to tell that to the manager when the shop opened the next day so as to avoid extra costs. He even said that he would inform the other mechanics at my shop of the predicament. I was a bit taken aback by his honesty given the general shadiness of many garages, but his help was much appreciated.
As I mentioned before, Josh and I were only a few miles from the night’s planned destination. As dusk fell, we rolled across the Mississippi and into the trucker’s heaven that is West Memphis Arkansas. During all of my previous trips down to the lone star state, I had always complained about the fact that all the journeys lacked that true road trip quality. The drives were monotonous, the hotel rooms sterile, the restaurants the kind that could be had anywhere in any given metropolis across this country. Well, that night would be a bit of a departure from that norm. We pulled into the parking lot of the hotel room and instantly noticed not only a preponderance of motorcycles, but also an automobile that appeared to be 30% metal and 70% duct tape and rope. The inside of the hotel had a similarly trashy quality. The room had an odd odor. Looking into the bathroom I noticed a mildewed floor and what appeared to be the stains of fecal matter on the wall. A lone fly buzzed about to complete the effect. We were too tired to be fazed by all of this and decided to seek nourishment. Despite what one would thing, West Memphis is hardly an epicurean Mecca. We had our choice of the truck stop next door, MacDonald’s, and Toxic Hell. We opted for the truck stop.
Now, if one is looking for a slice of real America; the grittiness of the road, a unique culture apart from mainstream society, one will surely find it at a truck stop. As we entered the smoky establishment, glittering gift shop to our right and restaurant to our left, we were struck by the sight of enormous truckers piling mountain loads of food into their mouths from the all you can eat buffet. We sat in a deserted corner of the restaurant at a table with a telephone next to it (all good truck stops have phones at the table) so that I could call my mom and tell her of my predicament. The waitress came and took our orders. If you want good service go to a truck stop. The waitresses (and they are always waitresses) may be old and haggard and call you ‘hon, but they are generally pleasant and always efficient as hell. I tried to eat most of my home fries and pancakes, but truck stop fare is heavy and the stress of the day, which at first had made me ravenous, now left me a bit nauseated. We paid our bill and laughed with the cashier as she commented on her incompetence at swiping our credit cards. We then returned to the hotel, made a few phone calls and went to sleep praying that we wouldn’t contract some horrible sexually transmitted disease just from sleeping in the hotel beds.
Today was a better day. We woke up early and went to the garage where I informed the garage management of my need for service. They said they would get the car in as soon as possible and estimated a bill of about $300. Not great, but better than the worse case scenario, a destroyed engine. We grabbed a lengthy breakfast at the IHOP and waited until 1 PM until they finally finished with the car. We gassed up and drove like hell to the west. A day of 80 mph driving meant that even with the morning’s setback we were able to reach our planned destination of Dallas just as the cars around us began to turn on their headlights.