It’s 1:17AM, just got home, smell like popcorn, and I still have an entire assignment to write.
I drive an old man car: a 1995 Century Buick. This car tends to run hot. VERY hot. The oil temperature (gauge?) thingy typically resides at about 3/4 or higher. For months I’ve been periodically (sometimes consistently) blasting the heat with the windows cracked, this usually lowers the temperature to a little higher than 1/2 – clearly, I’m not car savvy.
I call my Buick a sauna for a reason.
Tonight, for the first time, my old man car bitched out to the point where the gauge was so dangerously close to overheating that I had to pull over.
Thanks to movies, books, and television a young girl sitting by the side of the road at 12:30AM would result in one of five possible circumstances:
- A man pulls up and does something bad to the girl: rape, murder, kidnap, torture
- The girl is actually a psychopath and does something bad to an unsuspecting bystander
- Man stops to see if she’s okay – they fall in love
- A cop asks what’s going on
None of the above happened. I sat there for about fifteen minutes with my heat on blast, waiting for the engine to cool down. Nothing happened. I felt like I was in an Indie movie as I sat in the dark watching cars drive by listening to the gentle harmonies and beautiful strings of Iron and Wine as they sung cinder and smoke, you’ll ask me to pray for rain, with ash in your mouth, you’ll ask it to burn again. My car swayed each time a car drove by, when the semi’s passed by my car rocked like a cradle. I watched headlights come and go, none of them slowed, most of them changed into the lane furthest from me. Not a single cop came by, part of me was hoping one would, just for the sake of a story. But nothing happened. My car cooled to driving temperature and I finally drove home.
I saw a car on the side of the road. I didn’t slow – the car looked abandoned.
I didn’t see a cop until I reached Bellingham; right next to my exit. It was parked uselessly on the side of the road lazily waiting for trouble to find them.
Thus I’ve concluded the following: if anyone is stranded on the freeway and they don’t have a cellphone on hand – they are fucked.