True Roadside Emergency Story

Heather, over at OMSH, is having another drawing for a prize (actually, it’s a bit of a contest this time. (I want a gimmick too. Y’all help me think of one. I may have one, but I have to mull it over.) Anyway you can go read the rules yourself, but basically I have to write a true roadside emergency story that has happened to me. Then I post a link to it over there and then everyone gets an opportunity to vote on it. Here’s my true life roadside emergency story. And please, enjoy at my expense:

Once upon a time (yes, I know true stories do not start that way, but I want to so I am going to. So nah.), a long, long, time ago, way back in 1989 I was taking a little road trip. I was driving along in my automobile when SUDDENLY to my surprise there was smoke! (It was a surprise because I had a totally perfectly reliable car that should never have any problems. NOT. This was also the car whose ignition key I could take out whenever I wanted, even while driving.) “Holy smoke, BatMan! Where do you think it’s coming from?” Which is strange enough in itself that I said that, because I was totally alone. It was not long after seeing the smoke that my aural factories noticed a stench of unlikely proportions to that of the amount of smoke. “Thar she blows!” I said as I pulled off the road, quite certain my oh so very reliable car was going to blow. (Again with this talking to myself.) The smoke first began to appear from under the hood. My immediate thought was that I was running hot and needed to pull over. I checked all the gauges – nope, I’m not running hot. Well, I am hot, or was once upon 20 years ago, but the car wasn’t hot, by any means. The scene was very quickly likened to that of a movie: the car was filling with smoke and I was having trouble seeing. It was stinking really badly. And then there was fire. FIRE! F I R E! Why didn’t I just pull over you ask? Well, because all this happened very quickly and I was in a very bad section of road to pull over. I was on Interstate 59, heading Northeast and on a section of Interstate that had many curves to the disadvantage of a car and driver pulled over on the shoulder. Roll down the window you ask? Why, yes, yes, I did. But in my super reliable car I had those really old reliable manual window cranks. Crank. Crank. Crank. The only window I could roll down was the one on my side, the driver’s side window. And the handle was missing so I substituted with a wrench. Do you know how hard it is to roll down a window with a wrench for a replacement? Do you know what a rolled down window does to smoke pouring in from the other side of the car? It sucks it out the window by first drawing it all in front of ME! It also fueled the fire. There was a freaking fire in my car! I did finally get pulled over on the side of the road safely. I saw fire and I really didn’t care who or what I hit in the process of pulling over.

I then rolled my window back down so I could see if it was safe to get out and go around the car. I normally would get out on the passenger’s side if I could not safely get out on mine, but as the smoke and smell and fire was coming from that side I did not want to go near that side of the car too much. There was a break in the traffic and I jumped out and quickly moved around to the grass and trees. I was contemplating what to do next as I rummaged through my stuff in the back of the car looking for the so totally cool cell bag phone I had plugged in to the back of my car when I was scared by the honking noise of an 18 wheeler. Let me tell you there is nothing like trying to hold in the pee after turning around to see a massive truck looking like it’s gonna run you right over like bug and squash you flat! I was really not liking being where I was on that blind curve – it was scary. Before I could get my heart slowed back down, two more lovely trucks sped around the corner, blowing there horns at me. That’s when I remembered how smokin’ hot I was in my twenty-one year old bod. In my strappy sandals and my long plaid shorts and my pink polo and skinny cardigan draped around my shoulders. Totally hot. Totally preppy. Totally.

OK, OK, so I was not being honked at for being so smoking hot, but I was being honked at because they were trying to tell me they saw me and because my car WAS ON FIRE! I know this for a fact. You know how I know this is fact. Because a trucker told me so. Apparently the CB radio waves WERE smoking hot with talk about me. From one trucker to the next and on down the road there was talk of this “little lady who was stranded by the road with a smoking car.” Six trucks blew past me with horns a honkin’ when one came around the corner IN THE SHOULDER/EMERGENCY LANE. Talk about scaring the living daylights out of me (as well as a few other things). Whew! He stopped short about two and half feet from the rear bumper of my car. Let me just say that 18 wheeler’s carrying a load ca not stop on a dime. It’s a good thing I hadn’t birthed any babies at that time, because I had real good control over my kegels and I’m glad I did. The driver side door of this monster truck opened very slowly (like something out of PeeWee’s Big Adventure) and out stepped a very. large. man. His name was Bud. How do I know his name was Bud? Because it was tattooed in big bold letters across his left arm right under the demon-shaped-thing with wings and over the snake tattoo wrapped around his forearm. There were some funny looking numbers on his right arm and a tattoo of the Virgin Mary and a MOM tattoo above that. And these were clearly in the line of visibility as he was wearing a wife-beater undershirt and leather pants. He had a very, very long beard and braided hair to rival the length of Crystal Gayle’s before she cut it off. (All right, not that long, but close.) He looked like he should have been on a motorcycle. Which reminds me of another time I ran into some similar looking individuals at a bar where I stopped one night to play some pool. That’s another story, for another time and post.

I know how to change a flat, check the air and add more, change a belt or use my pantyhose in an emergency, how to check the oil and add more if necessary. I know how to check for fluids and add them and how NOT to open it up to add more WHILE IT IS HOT. I know how to change out the bulbs and the fuses and many other things on my car. But I do NOT want to do any of those things if there is another option. You know, like one that would keep me from getting all dirty. (My view on this has changed a little bit since having six children and having been burped on, peed on, and pooped on. I have been christened into motherhood plenty good.)

So, here comes this big trucker guy walking at a slow ramble in his cowboy boots and hat that don’t match the leather pants, the wife beater shirt, or the tattoos. I was trying really hard to be nice and not be scared, but really, I was scared of him a bit. He asked me what happened. I told him the story, minus the info about talking to myself. I didn’t want to give him any ideas, really. He checked under my hood, well my car’s hood. He scratched his head under his hat and said, “Ma’am, your car stinks.” [to myself: DUH. Did you notice it was smoking too?] “Is it making any noises? or running rough?” “No, just smoking and stinking. Does it smell like burning plastic to you?” “You know, I was jes’ thinkin’ that. But much more worse. It’s kinda makin’ me sick, you know?” [to myself: try driving with that in the car. Now I think I smell that way too.] “A tow truck’s gone sho be expensive to come all this way and git ya. Where you headed?” I was headed to north Alabama, but Meridian was the next town so that’s what I said. “Well, les git your windows all down and I’ll follow you into the next town if you think you’re safe driving it. I jes’ can’t find nothin’ wrong with it under the hood.” I told him, once all the smoked cleared out, that it was probably a fuse in the box under the passenger side dash and he shook his head in agreement. He told me how all truckers were coming around that blind curve and seeing me and letting the next trucker know there was a car pulled over, stranded, and smoking. They were all trying to communicate which mile marker would be the best for the next tuck to know when to stop without causing any wrecks or hitting me as they came around the curve.

He followed me in to Meridian, we drove slowly – just in case, and he honked and waved by when I pulled over into a Chevrolet dealership to have them double check that it was just the fuse box and that I was safe to keep driving and deal with the new fuses and box later. All was cleared and on I traveled to my destination safely the rest of the way.