On Breaking Down
Two weekends ago, we drove to a town outside of Mechanicsburg, PA, to visit with my Mom's family. We almost didn't make it.
As with many other car trips, I was running behind. While I was upstairs putting on a clean shirt and brushing my teeth, Megan was loading her car with the pack-n-play, diaper bag, and various other baby-day-trip items that we rarely leave home without these days. It was 9:20 — we were already 20 minutes behind schedule. We jumped in the car, confirmed we were buckled in tightly, and I turned the key. Nothing happened. Think for a second, turn it again — as if that's going to change anything — and again, nothing.
"Your car's dead."
"What do you want to do?" she asks me. At this point, we should have realized that there was something wrong with her car and decided to move everything to my truck and take that instead. But it was already too late. My manbrain was formulating a plan. We were already running late, and I just wanted to get on the road. At the time, it seemed like jump starting her car would be the fastest way to get there. I may have been more wrong once or twice in my life, but it's tough to say.
At this point, I'm thinking a lot more than I'm talking. I tell her to hop in the driver's seat, take it out of gear, disengage the emergency brake, and take the wheel while I jump out and start pushing on the hood. I gave it enough umph to get her car out of the garage and into the driveway, where she steps on the brake and asks again, "What do you want me to do?"
I guess I thought it was kind of obvious that I wanted to jump start her car. At least, I can't come up with a better reason that I didn't give her a clear answer, unless you'll accept momentary lapse of clearheadedness. My truck was parked on the street, behind a neighbor's car, and the easiest way to get the two of them nose-to-nose was to back her car out of the driveway and across the street, where I would have room to pull up to it. Funny how she can only read my mind when she wants to.
After we got into the street, I quickly learned that Megan had no idea you had to turn the key to unlock the steering. No worries, I can just push the car forward and then back again to adjust for that! … In my flip flops. Hey, you learn something new every day right?
I took the opportunity to show Meg the proper way to jump start a car, and we got hers running immediately and got on the road, thinking this whole thing was behind us.
About an hour later, after we passed Lancaster and got to some real-deal use-your-cruise-control highways, I decided to use the cruise control. I clicked the toggle button for main cruise control power and then reflexively hit the "set" button. The tachometer dropped to zero, the odometer did the same, and the air conditioner – not to be left out – joined the party. I had half a mind to fight with the odometer, as clearly we were going well over zero miles an hour. In fact, we were doing [exactly the speed limit! ;)], in the left lane, with some jerk in a black sport utility vehicle riding my bumper.
"Your car's dead."
"What?!"
"It just shut off when I turned on the cruise control."
"Well, pull over or something."
"That would be a good idea." I glance in my rearview to see that as we're coasting and losing speed, the SUV is gaining on us — a feat that I didn't think was possible without trading paint. I check over my shoulder, and of course there's a blue Porsche in my blind spot.
"You should turn on your turn signal." Again, a great idea. And college buddies question why men get married!
"Can't. Battery's dead. We don't have a turn signal." So, without anything else to do, I just coasted for a while in the left lane waiting for the Porsche to pass and for the SUV to put me into the guardrail — rubbin's racin' — until eventually a hole opened up and I crossed 3 lanes of traffic in the time it takes to blink twice and get honked at 13 times. I pulled onto the shoulder, fiddled with the hazard lights for a moment before I realized they were dead too, and then we stared at each other for a minute, dumbfounded. Neither of us had been broken down on the side of the road before.
We checked our insurance packet — "We have roadside assistance, right?" — and came to find out that no, we used to have it, but never used it, so it was something we didn't think about when we switched providers. Megan called the claims number — the only insurance number we could find — and asked about roadside assistance. The claims operator was basically unhelpful, and at some length explained that she couldn't dispatch anyone to help us (nor give us a phone number of someone who could), but that they might reimburse us after the fact.
We thought about calling Geico, whose card was still in Megan's glove compartment, but then she had an epiphany and called her sister, who would probably have been the closest friend/relative, had her family not been camping for the weekend. Not only was she not available to come help, but Megan's other idea — getting her to look up towing & service options on the internet — would be especially hard while camping. Had I known she was calling to have Susan look stuff up on the internet, I would have stopped her — I had the internet in the palm of my hand.
So a quick google maps search, and I was on the phone with the closest Pep Boys. They dispatched a tow truck and set me up in their automated callback system so that there was no chance I could be forgotten. The computer would call me back in a minute or two to let me know the name and phone number of the towing company that was being dispatched, and the estimated time of arrival.
Finally, things are starting to go our way. Or are they?!
Will our heroes survive? Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion!
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