Driveway Gas Runner-Outer

My wife, son, and I were coming back from a weekend trip to Washington D.C. We got home, put the car in the garage, and started getting our son ready for bed. I turned on the house alarm and prepared for what we expected to be an early night. The nation’s capitol really wears you out with all that walking.

Then the doorbell rang. We live on a street with almost zero pedestrian activity, so this was unusual - especially for 7:30 on a Sunday. If someone was coming to our front door, it was either some kind of salesperson (like the solar panel installer who tried to make a sale by getting me to confirm “the sun is free - right?”) or one of our neighbors who had our mail delivered to them by mistake. I ran downstairs to see which awaited me.

I opened the door to see a normal-looking guy standing there, kind half-smiling and half looking confused. His car was parked at the edge of our driveway at an odd angle. But because I’d forgotten to turn off the alarm system, a shrieking sound went off as soon as I opened the door. This scared my wife and son upstairs and put me in the unpleasant position of having to hold up one finger and walk back up the stairs to disable the alarm. I was hoping the guy wasn’t a killer because at that moment he’d have had no problem getting in and stabbing me a little.

I turned off the alarm and went back down and apologized, which I immediately regretted. In a French accent, the guy introduced himself as… Guy. You know, the French pronunciation. He said he was sorry to bother me, but he wanted to let me know who he was, because he’d run out of gas as he pulled into our driveway. Ah.

Now, we live on a 45 MPH street where people regularly reach 60, with two lanes in each direction and no shoulder. So while running out of gas and pulling into our driveway is not as unusual as it would be in a cul de sac or another more neighborhood-y environment, it’s still odd. And yet this wasn’t the first person who’d done it. A few years earlier, a kid coming back from a football party, with no cell phone or cash, did the same thing when my wife was home with our son. She wound up calling his mother to get him and bring him to a gas station. So weird as this was, it was not our first in-driveway breakdown. Sorry, Guy.

Guy asked me if there was a gas station nearby. I told him it was about a mile down the road. He didn’t seem too thrilled with that prospect. I don’t blame him.

Then he asked me if I had any gas in my house - “you know, like for a lawnmower” (no duh). I said I did, and asked him to meet me in front of the garage.

I went back into the house and explained to my wife what was going on. To her credit, a second person running out of gas as they pulled into our driveway didn’t really faze her. Par for the course.

When I opened the garage door, Guy was standing there, and already thanking me for the gas. “We’re on our way to a free concert on Festival Pier,” he said.

“‘We’?” I asked. And that’s when I really looked into his car. I saw a woman and two pre-teen girls inside and realized as bad as it is to run out of gas in a stranger’s driveway alone, it’s much worse to do it with your family - and on your way to an event. I remembered hearing that a very teen-friendly band of young boys with hair combed over their foreheads was performing in Philadelphia this evening. All the more reason to plan for your trip by purchasing gasoline.

I told Guy that I hadn’t realized there were people in the car. He said, “Dude, they hate me in there.” I guess so. There are gas stations all over the place on our road. He must have consciously ignored each one as he headed to his concert. What a dope.

But Guy said, “I insist. Tell me what you like to drink and I will bring it to you.” I reluctantly said that if he were to get me a bottle his favorite French wine, I’d drink it. It’s the truth. I like wine.

I gave him my lawnmower gas can, which was about halfway full. As he was pouring it into the tank of his car, he thanked me again and asked, “What is your drink of choice?”

I said, “No, it’s okay. You don’t have to do that.” I did this partly because I just wanted to be nice - but also because I didn’t have a good sense that he’d actually come through on repaying me, as he seemed to be offering. Better to cut if off before the offer is made.

But Guy said, “I insist. Tell me what you like to drink and I will bring it to you.” I reluctantly said that if he were to get me a bottle his favorite French wine, I’d drink it. It’s the truth. I like wine.

“It’s done, then!” he said with a seemingly sincere smile. And I fell for it. Guy would never force me to agree to be repaid in alcohol, then renege on the offer - would he? After all, he’s proven himself to be so responsible so far.

When he’d used half of the available gas, Guy tried to start the car. He gave it a few solid attempts but it wouldn’t go. He asked me for the gas can again, and I told him to finish it off. He did, and the car started. I could see his wife and daughters inside cheering. Let this be a lesson, kids - always rely on the kindness of strangers. Especially if you’re blocking their driveway.

Guy thanked me one more time as he gave me back my gas can. “I will get you that wine!” he said. His wife rolled down her window and yelled out, “Thank you!” It was a victory - not just for me, or for Guy, but for good deed-doers everywhere.

My new French friend and future wine-supplier drove off. And for the first time, I thought, “What if he’d broken down just five minutes earlier?” We’d have been blocked from entering our driveway after a three hour drive home. And because we live on such a major road, there’s nowhere else to park nearby (which is why this “running out of gas in our driveway” thing seems to happen so often) - so I’d have had to park a block away, leave my wife and son inside, and walk home to try to figure out just who in the hell is stationed in front of our house on a Sunday night. That would have been fun.

Well, you’re probably wondering if Guy honored his word and brought me the bottle of French wine that he forced me to agree would be my repayment for providing him with gas to get him on his way. I’m sorry to say that after months of checking all over the front of our house (mailbox, welcome mat, rose bushes), there was no wine to be found - French or otherwise. But really, why would I expect someone who was irresponsible enough to run out of fuel on major roadway filled with gas stations to honor his word? My bad.

Two Parked Car Hits

I’ve owned a few cars in my life, and they all seemed to get hit while they’re parked at one point or another. And there always seems to be a witness to the hitting who reports it to me afterward. Weird, right?

One time I drove to a friend’s house and parked out front on the street. The friend and I went out and when we came back, there a voicemail from his neighbor saying that a teenager living next door had hit my car while backing out of his driveway - then went forward and back about three more times, hitting my car harder each time while laughing. Nice, huh?

I don’t know what was going on there, but this isn’t about that time. This is actually about two more memorable times my parked car was smashed into violently. Yes, it only gets better from here.

The first car hit took place in a movie theater parking lot. I’d met friends and when I came out, I found a folded note under my car windshield. I was single at the time, so when I opened the note, I was thinking maybe it was from a shy girl who saw me at the concession stand, somehow located my car, and had left me her phone number on the note in the hopes that she and I would go out on a date with her. Why not be optimistic about these things?

But that was a very wrong guess because the note was a pre-printed police form that read, “YOUR VEHICLE HAS BEEN INVOLVED IN AN ACCIDENT. REPORT TO THE STATION HOUSE WHEN YOU RECEIVE THIS MESSAGE.” Jeez, cops - you don’t gotta yell at a guy.

As I was reading the note, a guy who had been laying across the hood of his car sat up. I hadn’t noticed him earlier, probably because I was distracted by the cop note. Like a puppet, he sprang to life and with no introduction, immediately began speaking in a self-amused, voice:

“Heh heh man you shoulda seen it,” Car Hood Guy said. “This one car was like comin’ down the aisle here and he wasn’t doin’ anything wrong or nothin’ but then this OTHER car comes outta nowhere and he hits that car HARD!”

“Right,” I said. “And then what happened?” I felt like I was pumping an informant for more information, and that felt cool.

“So then that car rolled back and the driver was like, ‘What the HELL, man?!’ to the guy who hit him… Heh heh heh…”

Car Hood Guy was really enjoying the memory of what had happened not fifteen minutes ago. “Yeah the guy who got hit was really crapping his pants and screamin’ ‘What the hell are you doin’ man?!’ while he was getting pushed into the other cars. Heh heh heh…”

“Gotcha,” I said. “So that car hit me?”

“Not at first man,” Car Hood Guy continued. “So like the guy who hit the guy was laughing and then he goes forward and then he puts it in reverse and SLAMS into the other guy. LlKE ON PURPOSE! And he keeps the gas on so he’s pushing the guy and THAT’S when the guy’s car goes into your car and these other two cars over here,” he said, pointing to my two car neighbors in the theater lot.

My stomach was in knots imagining the scene - especially since my car wouldn’t have been involved had the crazy guy not gone back for a repeat attack.

Car Hood Guy was really enjoying the memory of what had happened not fifteen minutes ago. “Yeah the guy who got hit was really crapping his pants and screamin’ ‘What the hell are you doin’ man?!’ while he was getting pushed into the other cars. Heh heh heh…”

I looked my car over. It was only a couple years old at that point, so it had already experienced the first few dings. I didn’t see any new sign of damage. I thanked Car Hood Guy (yes, I really did), he chuckled more as he lay back down on his car hood, re-entering his own semi-hallucinatory dreamworld. I went to the police station the next day, and after being forced to explain that I was the victim and not the perpetrator of a car hit to the mean lady behind the counter, I did some paperwork that amounted to nothing and went on my way.

Car hit number two was similar. It happened on the main street of a cute little town. I was minding my own business, eating in a pizza restaurant. I finished, left, and went to my car which was parked on the street right in front of the joint.

Just like the previous incident, I found a note on my car - though this one was on the driver’s side window. And once again, even though I was married at this point, I had hoped the note was from a chick who was trying to get with me because I want to believe that I’ve still “got it”.

But my hopes were dashed again when I read the note in childlike handwriting. “Somebody hit your car,” it read. “I saw them. I got their license number. It was a Pennsylvania plate. I work down the street at the real estate office.” (why is that important?). He signed it with his name - Barry - and his phone number. I knew without hesitation that this was going to turn out weird.

As I was reading, I noticed a guy tapping on the window of the pizza place. His mouth was opened and I could see partially-chewed pizza inside. He was pointing at the note, then back at himself. Yes, it was Barry in the flesh. And I think the pizza was peppers and sausage.

I went back into the pizza place and Barry introduced himself by saying “I’m Barry. I left you that note” and then giving me the same bare bones description of what happened that the note contained. His personality was a little off, and that’s being kind.

I asked him for more detail, but he just reiterated everything again. This guy was not one for detail. Barry seemed robotic. Or at least cyborgish. The only thing he added this time was, “When he hit your car, there was a loud boom - so loud that it echoed among the buildings!” Then he made the boom sound. It was pretty scary.

Okay, that scared me. I couldn’t seen any damage on the front of my car, but if the impact was loud enough for that scary echo, I should probably get it checked out. I thanked him and called the cops.

When the cop showed up, he wound up talking to both me and Barry separately. The cop came over to me after questioning Barry, and he seemed a little confused - or maybe disturbed - as he wrote up his report.

If that moment had been in a thriller movie, there would have been a slow zoom into the cop’s face followed by a slow zoom into mine. We both looked over and Barry was watching us both with little smile. He seemed different now. Maybe a little… insane?

“The witness told me he was sitting right there when he saw the other guy hit your car,” the cop said as he pointed to Barry, still at his window seat. “Is that what he told you?”

“Yes,” I replied. “He said that the impact was so hard, the sound echoed off all the buildings.” My adrenaline was pumping.

The cop nodded. “He told me that, too,” he said. “But look at your car.” He pointed to the license plate on the front bumper.

I crouched and checked out my plate. “It looks okay,” I said. “No damage.”

“Right,” the cop said. “But if someone hit your car hard enough for the sound to echo off these buildings, how come license plate doesn’t even have a ding in it?”

If that moment had been in a thriller movie, there would have been a slow zoom into the cop’s face followed by a slow zoom into mine. We both looked over and Barry was watching us both with a little smile. He seemed different now. Maybe a little… insane?

The cop told me he’d look into the license number Barry had given him. He also told me to take my car to a body shop and have it checked - if it had been hit as hard as Barry claimed, there would be some damage to the axles. I agreed, suddenly feeling part of a criminal investigation. Maybe Barry had committed much worse crimes than bearing false witness to hit and runs. Maybe he was the local madman and my possibly-fake-car-hit would turn up key information in his case.

It didn’t wind up being as dramatic as all that, but it was still weird. The Pennsylvania license plate number Barry had given couldn’t be connected to any car in the state. Hmm…

And I took my car into my dealer. They put it on a lift right in front of me as two guys checked it out.

“What did you say happened to it?” one mechanic asked as he searched around with a light.

“Supposedly it was hit really hard,” I replied.

He put down the light and looked at me. “Buddy,” the mechanic said, “This car’s in perfect shape. If another car even tapped it, I’d be shocked.”

Add some reverb and delay to the last couple words he said and you’d have my reaction. The whole thing was pretty freaky.

I never got to the bottom of it, but sometimes while driving around that cute little town, I pass the real estate office where Barry works (or claims to have worked), and I always feel a chill up my spine. Maybe Barry made the whole thing up. Maybe it was even him who hit my car. Do you think? And maybe… just maybe… the calls were coming from inside the house…

Mechanic Car Pool

Most car dealerships have shuttle services these days. Rather than waiting around for hours as your car is being serviced, you leave it there and the shuttle brings you to work, home, or maybe to the local arcade if you like to play video games. You get to sit with impatient strangers in a confined space as a retiree drives you along the most inefficient route possible. It’s really fun.

But when it comes to smaller mechanic shops, they don’t usually have a dedicated shuttle. If you’re lucky, one of the less-busy employees can drive you where you’re going in one of the cars that’s being worked on. Or they might take you in your own car, which they’ll then drive back after dropping you off. There are so many wonderful ways this can work - that’s the charm of the informal mechanic shuttle service.

I once experienced an even more mutated version of this system. I was dropping off my out-of-warranty car at a fairly big mechanic shop in town. I’d made arrangements the previous day to bring it in first thing that morning, and when I did, I asked if they’d be able to bring me to work. “That won’t be a problem,” the owner told me - and I bought it, because I want to believe in the good of humanity.

So I handed over my keys and asked who’d be bringing me into work. The guy behind the counter pointed to an idling car in the lot and said, “Chris is waiting for you.” Oh cool - he said it like he he was expecting me. “This shop is really on top of things!” I thought as I walked across the lot to the waiting car.

But when I looked in, instead of seeing Chris - the employee I thought would be taking me to work - behind the wheel, a woman was in the driver’s seat. That was weird. And the person who was presumably Chris was in the passenger’s seat. Odd.

I knocked on the window and when Chris lowered it, I asked, “Is… is this the car that’s going to give me a ride to work?” I suddenly felt like a confused Kindergarten student taking the bus for the first time.

Chris nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “but she’s gotta get to work first. Get in the back.”

I said “okay” and did as Chris said. Only then did I realize why this woman was in the driver’s seat and not Chris - this was her car, and she was now the driver of an unintentional car pool.

The woman started driving. I greeted her, but if she said anything back to me I couldn’t hear it. I caught her reflection in the rearview mirror and she looked uneasy. And why shouldn’t she be? She probably thought she’d just be dropping her car off at the mechanic’s and getting a ride to work. Instead, she was shuttling herself to work with the mechanic shop employee and another customer as her passengers. This is not a typical configuration as far as I’d previously experienced. It felt like a deleted scene from one of those Saw movies.

We drove about five miles to her work. Driver Lady and Chris weren’t too chatty - the sun had barely risen - but I gave in to my instinct to try to de-weirdize our situation by asking some questions. I don’t like small talk but I like tense silence even less.

It seemed wrong to say nothing at all (though Chris was very comfortable with that), so I called out to Driver Lady, “Have a great day at work” and waved. And I meant it - even though it made the whole scenario seem like some kind of freakish family outing.

But it turns out that asking a stranger - even if she’s driving you in her car - questions like, “So where’s your office?” and “What’s your job?” can seem intrusive when you’re actually going to that workplace. She gave halting, tentative answers, each beginning with an emphasized “Um…” followed by an intentional pause, clearly designed to reinforce her discomfort. Chris kept quiet and may have even drifted off. I couldn’t see his face up there. I should have taken the hint and followed his lead.

When we finally arrived at Driver Lady’s office, an even weirder moment occurred. She pulled up to the curb by the entrance and got out. Then Chris unbuckled himself, stepped out of the passenger’s seat, and sat behind the wheel. And then I got out of the back seat and into the front. It seemed wrong to say nothing at all (though Chris was very comfortable with that), so I called out to Driver Lady, “Have a great day at work” and waved. And I meant it - even though it made the whole scenario seem like some kind of freakish family outing.

Driver Lady gave a half-wave and an intentionally uncomfortable smile. She wasn’t about to make things any less weird. Then she watched as Chris and I drove off in her car. I can only imagine what she was feeling at that moment. Maybe she feared that Chris and I would have some wild breakfast in her vehicle, scattering fast food wrappers all over. But that wasn’t likely to happen. Chris was only awake enough to navigate us to my workplace, and even that seemed like a challenge. I knew he wasn’t a morning person.

Because I’m a glutton for punishment, I tried to have a little rap with Chris, too. It just felt wrong to have him drive me to work for twenty minutes without speaking to the guy. If he wasn’t the employee of the company that I was paying to fix my car, I don’t doubt that he would have told me to shut up - but he managed a few polite responses to my questions, and it even came out that his father was the owner of the shop. Ah - no wonder he was humoring me by speaking.

We got to my work and, in a moment that was slightly less strange than the previous drop-off, I said goodbye to Chris. I got half a nod back, which was more than enough for me.

And when the shop called that afternoon to tell me that my car was ready, I had a co-worker drive me in. There’s only so much car-related weirdness I can take in one day.

Dental Implant Taxi Service

When I was 28, I had to get a dental implant because I neglected to do follow-up work (a “post and core”) to a root canal, which was just plain stupid. A frozen Kit Kat knocked the shell of my tooth right out of my mouth, and the only real option was to get an implant.

I got the first step in the implant process done - a root clearing - and then a couple months later I had to get the implant itself installed. This is considered surgery, since a hole must be bored into your skull from under your gumline where the implant gets screwed in.

Because it’s surgery, you have to take a Valium before the operation - and you can’t drive to or from the oral surgeon’s appointment. The office make a big deal about this point (“And you’ll be taking the medication one hour before, correct?”, “Do you have a ride?”, “Are you driving yourself?”, “You know you CAN’T drive yourself because you’re taking the medication!”) They try to trip you up like that.

Now because my mom was a big worrier, I never told her anything about my tooth cracking out, or about the implant process (which takes almost a year to complete). She’d have worried constantly about the pain, and the cost ($5,100 - only $50 of which was covered by insurance) and she’d be asking me questions for many months. And because I wasn’t going to tell my mom what I was having done, I didn’t tell anyone else in my family for fear word would get back to her. I had compartmentalized my dental situation, keeping the knowledge to only a few close friends.

During the fifteen minute ride, I tried to chitchat with her kids just enough not to seem like the weird quiet guy, but not so much as to come off as the weird overly-interested-in-young-kids guy.

And one of those friends, a teacher who lived about 45 minutes north of me, had kindly agreed to drive me to and from my appointment. We’d set it up weeks before, but she had a family emergency the morning of my operation. She called me and told me she could pick me up from the oral surgeon’s office to drive me home, but she wouldn’t be able to take me there. “But don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve already made arrangements for you.” Hmmm....

It turns out that she had a friend who lived close to me. This woman didn’t work, and she’d agreed to pick me up from my apartment and drive me to my oral surgeon’s appointment.

The thing that made it weird, though, was that this woman had two young kids. And since she stayed at home with them all day, she didn’t have anyone to watch them while she drove me. So when she picked me up, I wound up sitting in the back of her minivan with her kids.

She seemed to be a nice woman, but clearly she was at least a little uncomfortable picking up a strange man at his place and inviting him into her vehicle with her kids. During the fifteen minute ride, I tried to chitchat with her kids just enough not to seem like the weird quiet guy, but not so much as to come off as the weird overly-interested-in-young-kids guy.

When we arrived, I thanked her as sincerely as I could, but she seemed relieved just to have me exit her minivan. All that because I took a Valium that was supposed to calm me down for the surgery, and yet I remember not feeling any different the whole day.

So it was technically “help from an unexpected source,” but not in the typical “someone swooped in to save the day!” kind of way. It was just awkward, just like most of these incidents. Get used to it.

High Speed Line IRS Hater

I live in New Jersey, about twenty minutes East of center city Philadelphia. One of the most convenient ways to get into the city is to take a train known to locals as the High Speed Line. There are many advantages to this method of transport - you get to avoid traffic, toll booths, bridges, parking facilities - but if there is one disadvantage it would have to be the fact that the High Speed Line puts you in close contact with some absolute lunatics. And that’s bad.

It is for the above-stated reason that I rarely take the High Speed Line into Philadelphia, preferring instead to deal with the manageable and less-insane issues that come with driving in. However, a week after buying my first new car in eleven years, I had to head into the city for a work errand. Fearing the temptations a shiny new vehicle might present to vandals, car thieves and neglectful parking lot attendants, I opted to take my chances with the train.

My trip going in was uneventful, as I blended in with the typical weekday-morning business crowd. But my work duties ended early, and I found myself heading back to Jersey mid-afternoon. Apparently, where I live, the freaks do not come out at night, but rather at 3:30 p.m. Take note.

As the train neared my stop, I overheard the tail end of a conversation between a grandmotherly woman and a casually-dressed man who looked reasonably tame. He queried the woman about paying income tax. His tone was at first reasonable as she offered some common sense advice (“You got to give the government what they want!”), and his responses did not at first signal that anything was wrong. “Oh yeah. Right, right. Thanks, Ma’am!” He seemed sane. But, he was not. In fact, he was the opposite.

The train stopped at the High Speed Line station, and a small group of us departed. The grandmotherly woman and several other commuters headed to an exit on the left, while the scary guy behind with me toward an exit on the right. I really, really wish I had chosen that exit on the left.

“I.R.S.... hate that I.R.S.... gotta hate ‘em!... they make you... make you hate ‘em!... I hate those people. Hate that f’ing I.R.S.!... I hate those f’ers... wanna kill ‘em!” (and here’s where it gets interesting) “...wanna kill you... gonna kill you! Gonna f’ing kill you!”

As scary guy walked, he slowly got closer to me. He also continued his conversation with the woman, who was already out of the station and on the other side of the parking lot at this point. His conversation with himself went like this:

“I.R.S.... hate that I.R.S.... gotta hate ‘em!” (almost a congenial tone at first) “... they make you...” make you hate ‘em!” (he was huffing now; the rage forming) “...I hate those people. Hate that f’ing I.R.S.!” (he was not considerate enough to use the apostrophe) “...I hate those f’ers... wanna kill ‘em!” (and here’s where it gets interesting) “...wanna kill you...gonna kill you! Gonna f’ing kill you!”

Yes, somehow a switch occurred, and since I was the only one around, and scary guy was making tentative eye contact with me, I felt a bit uneasy.

At this point he was close enough that his down jacket was gently rubbing against my arm as we left the safety of the station and entered the now-desolate parking lot. The grandmotherly woman and all the others who’d been on our train (l like to think of it as “ours”) were nowhere in sight, and I was heading to my spot with a lunatic in tow, weaving in between the parked cars with just inches behind me.

I quickly formed a plan and acted. I turned to face him, and with a friendly, concerned cock of my head, said, “She went over there!” and pointed back to the top of the train platform.

Please understand - the platform was completely empty, as was the station. Another train wouldn’t come along for a good fifteen or twenty minutes - enough time for his wrath to ebb... probably. This is why my conscience allowed me to take such drastic measures.

“Who?!” scary guy asked, with genuine interest.

“Your friend! The lady – the I.R.S. lady!”

He looked up, squinting. “Oh... the lady! Gotta talk to her!”

Suddenly he was my automaton. Forgetting about me, he spun around and trudged off in the opposite direction.

“Oh.... gotta get her... gotta get that lady!”

Once he was a safe distance away, I jumped into my car and sped off. From the safety of my rearview mirror, I observed my new acquaintance slowly working his way back to the station, and promised myself to avoid the High Speed Line unless accompanied by a team of ninjas.

Mean Tow Truck Driver

I play drums in a local rock band. While I’d like to say we play only the largest of stadiums and arenas, it’s actually the small clubs, bars and random other venues in the Philadelphia area where we wind up performing. Late one summer, my band found itself playing a large outdoor concert with an array of other local bands. Being the band’s drummer, my vehicle was permitted to pull up, through an access road, to the rear of the large wooden structure, in order to make loading and unloading less of a chore. It was a welcome privilege when we arrived in the late afternoon, but in the evening, on the ride back down the unlit, unpaved access road, I rammed into an unyielding metal standpipe. I got out to inspect the damage.

While the standpipe was happily undamaged, my car’s right rear wheel was now set on a nasty angle. Typically, the flat bottom part of the tire is parallel to the road. My tire now offered only the right edge of the tire to the asphalt surface. I did some test driving down the dark road. Under 30 m.p.h. my car was driveable, but once I got over that speed, the car’s momentum caused the wheel to lift more, and proper steering gave way to severe fishtailing. The drive home would have taken 45 minutes – but the conditions this night were far from normal.

Being a stubborn male, I attempt to make the trip, deceiving myself into thinking I could just drive slower and keep the reckless driving to a minimum. Twenty sweaty minutes later I arrived at the entrance ramp to Interstate 95, quite proud. I entered the highway, though, and was terrified - the speeds that were barely passable on the local roads would get me killed on the interstate, and anything faster put my car’s rear end alternately onto the shoulder and into the middle lane of the highway. I pulled over at the top of an overpass, frustrated, realizing I’d only made my situation worse. My cell phone was at one bar’s worth of battery power, my car was packed full of drums on the busy overpass, and it was 12:30 a.m. on a weeknight. I called for a tow truck.

More than an hour later, the truck arrived. A large man in oil-stained overalls emerged. “Mr. Pastucci?” he asked. People often transpose the first two consonants of my last name - I’m over it. “Yes,” I said, relieved he’d arrived.

The tow truck driver introduced himself as Dan. He looked over some information on his clipboard, then looked at my car. Everything seemed to be in order - one car, broken down on the side of the highway - check. He made annotations on his clipboard for a few minutes, then turned to me.

“So what happened to the vehicle?” asked Dan the tow truck man.

“Oh, I hit a metal pipe and bent the back tire off the axle.” I was fairly proud I could give Dan this much information.

“I don’t understand. You can just drive your car real slow and it will be fine. But you - you went and called a tow truck.” What was he accusing me of? My stomach started to rumble.

Dan looked at the rear tire, seeming perturbed. “But it’s not flat.” His eyes were squinting - something was amiss in his automotively-oriented world.

“Yes, it’s not flat - I actually hit the pipe a few miles from here. I can drive it at low speeds, but when I go faster than thirty, it starts fishtailing.”

He offered what must have, to him, seemed like a reasonable suggestion: “Then just drive it slow.”

My patience was fading. “Well, I tried that, and it did get me here - but once I made it onto the highway, I just couldn’t keep it that slow - the other cars were slamming up behind me, trying to push me out of the way.”

For some reason. He wasn’t buying my reasoning. Keep in mind - the man is getting paid to do this. Dan took a seat on the guardrail, his back to the street below. He was completely unfazed. My car shook with every passing vehicle, only a few feet away. Dan was in no rush at all, though.

“I don’t understand. You can just drive your car real slow and it will be fine. But you - you went and called a tow truck.” What was he accusing me of? My stomach started to rumble.

I adopted a more serious tone. I explained to Dan, while looking directly into his eyes, that yes, my car could be driven - but only very slowly. And, driving slowly on the highway was extremely dangerous. The other thing I could do would be to drive fast. But, driving fast caused my car to lose all control. So, I called him to pick me up, and tow me over the bridge, to my apartment. I somehow figured a way to work in the words “pay” and “hired”, to remind Dan that I wasn’t asking a favor of him - this was his actual vocation.

I opened the passenger’s side door and was quite alarmed to see a woman already seated. She seemed rather nervous, and in her lap sat an oversized plastic container holding some type of thick maroon sauce. Normal.

Reluctantly Dan agreed to tow me. He asked me if the emergency brake was on. I informed him that it was. He was fine with this. Dan then pulled out the winch and tow wire, and hooked it under my front axel. He started up the winch. Since I’d only just told him the emergency brake was on, I assumed he was just going to get some tension on the wire. I gave Dan too much mental credit - the winch caught, there was plenty of tension and white smoke as the winch’s motor tried to pull my car. He screamed to me from the roadside, “Take the brake off! Take the brake off!” I did so, and my car lurched forward, bringing it halfway up his flatbed in an instant. Dan glared from the roadside. Somehow, he was pissed at me.

He finished his winch work, got my car fully in place on top of his truck, and locked it in position. I opened my car door carefully and looked down. I was now eight feet off the ground, on a shoulder tightly butted against the busy highway. The only way down was to jump. I waited for a space between two large semi’s and leaped down, then quickly got back to the shoulder before the next truck blazed by. This felt wrong.

Dan then indicated to me that I should join him inside the truck. I opened the passenger’s side door and was quite alarmed to see a woman already seated. She seemed rather nervous, and in her lap sat an oversized plastic container holding some type of thick maroon sauce. Normal.

Our host became quite formal as he offered introductions. “Latasha, I would like you to meet Mr. Pastucci. Mr. Pastucci, this is my lady, Latasha.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, sliding in beside her.

Latasha did not turn her head one degree, presumably out of fear. A meek “hello” was all she could get out.

We began the drive back to New Jersey. You would have thought Dan was driving a German sportscar, based on the careless way he changed lanes and took the turns. I watched my car through the tiny cab window - it was barely hanging on behind us, bouncing left and right as we raced down the road.

Dan wasn’t concerned, though - he may have had his “lady” right next to him, but that wasn’t about to stop him from flirting overtly with the dispatcher on the other end of his truck’s radio. “Flirting” might be too tame a word - he was describing to her the things he wanted to do, in graphic detail. The dispatcher woman sounded like a case study in emphysema, her hacking smoker’s cough combined with the radio’s frequent static gracefully helped to obscure her dialogue. At my side, Latasha continued to stare robotically into space, saying nothing.

We arrived at my apartment complex more than an hour later. Figuring I could maneuver my car in the parking lot, I had Dan drop me off at edge of the lot. He apologized for his truck’s volume - it had some serious exhaust issues - and I didn’t want it to disturb my neighbors.

“Do you think anyone would mind if I watered your flowers?” he asked, as he lowered my vehicle. Realizing what he meant, I replied, “That’s fine.” He walked a few feet away and took a whiz near the tall grass that bordered the fence of my apartment’s tennis courts.

In the meantime, I ran home and grabbed my checkbook. I’d already verified with Dan that his company definitely accepted personal checks. This was good news, since the tow would cost $38 and I didn’t have that much cash on hand, in my wallet or sitting around my apartment. He also revealed that this was his very first day as a tow truck diver - not his first day towing for this company, but his first day towing cars, ever. It was no surprise, but still, not comforting news. In the dim lamplight, I wrote Dan a check, added on a small tip so as to avoid his wrath, and bade him farewell. The truck drove off, his truck exhaust echoing off the flat-fronted buildings. I was relieved to see him leave the complex.

It was now nearly 3 a.m. I carefully drove my car into my assigned spot, quietly opened the door, and slowly unloaded my drums, piling them into my first floor hallway with a minimum of sonic disturbance. I planned to wake up early and bring my car to the repair shop before rush hour traffic was too intense. Proud that I’d held it together throughout the night’s ordeals, I readied myself for long-delayed slumber.

I don’t typically expect phone calls after 3, but at that moment my phone rang. It was emphysema dispatcher woman. There was a problem, she informed me - the tow company no longer accepts personal checks. Then I heard it - the rumbling, sputtering truck that brought me home. Dan pulled up in front of my door, and started beeping. Not thinking I’d hear the racket, he also opted to yell his version of my name: “Mr. Pastucci! Mr. Pastucci!!!” To say that he was making a lot of noise is not accurate - he and his truck were shaking the building’s foundation. I went out, cordless phone in hand, and simultaneously attempted to negotiate with him and his dispatcher.

The company was adamant that I needed to pay the full amount in cash, but I was not about to have Dan haul me to the nearest ATM to get him the necessary funds. My neighbors were already gathering at their windows and doors. It turned out that Dan had absolutely no money on him, and did not possess any type of ATM card himself. He needed my fees for the tow, just to get him back across the bridge to Pennsylvania. Good planning on his part, I felt.

I didn’t budge though. I wasn’t about to take another drive with this person. I stated that I’d give him the cash that I had, slightly more than he needed to pay the bridge toll, and I’d void my original check and would write out a new check for the difference. The tow company argued on the phone, but I stated there would be no alternative - I had been told on the ride over that they accepted checks. Had that not been the case, we’d have stopped at an ATM on the drive over. I stood firm.

In the end, Dan accepted my funds and drove off for the second and final time. My car’s damage was in excess of $1,400. Insurance did cover most of that, though my rates were jacked up significantly the following year. The five mile drive to the repair shop the next morning was nearly as harrowing as my trip the night before, but having sworn off crazy tow truck drivers, I was happy to chance it on my own.