Days of Drama

In the dark, in unfamiliar territory, looking for a bar I'd never been to before and running late. This was the moment that the car chose to give up the ghost. The next hour was a nightmare of stops and starts, of traffic hazards and blaring horns, of obstruction and road rage and desperate efforts to evade red lights and intersections, hoping against hope to encounter a cop or a carjacker. I made it to the bridge and then realized that it was over - the four lane divided highway ahead was nothing more than a series of endless red lights stretching out for miles and each engine death was bringing me closer to the inevitable moment when there would be no re-starting.

It happened at the second red light. Traffic snarled in all directions in an instant and I was caught in the middle with no way out, surrounded by angry drivers in impatient moods. Panic and rage were fighting an ugly battle in my head when at last the ignition caught long enough for me to pull onto a side street and out of harms way. A half dozen police cars were parked in the vicinity, a fact that might have piqued my curiosity under different circumstances, but for the moment I only knew that one of the cruisers was occupied. The officer lent me his cell phone to call for rescue and it was only several minutes later that I realized I was in the midst of a movie shoot with half the city's police force manning barricades and directing traffic for the film crew. I was stranded, alone, mad enough to spit, but I couldn't have been safer. With my head clearing and help on the way, I tried to begin to sort things out - the logical place to start seemed to be with the $2153.00 check I had written that very morning to the car repair shop. The next step, I was reasonably certain, would be some form of murder for hire.

The following day, after having made arrangements for the car to be picked up and towed, for my slot at work to be covered, and for a ride to the airport to pick up a second rental car, I stood at the We Try Harder counter waiting for the car I had reserved that morning, the car they had assured would be there, quoted me a price on, and thanked me for renting. Mysteriously enough, there was no car, no apology, no explanation - just a snotty, white trash young girl with dirty hair, an attitude, and a disinterested shoulder shrug. I trudged to the next two rental counters, counting to ten slowly and wondering how I could expand my murder for hire plan. Avis, it seemed, had reinvented their slogan from We Try Harder to We Don't Try At All but that was for another day.

Finally at home, fighting off anger, depression, a sense of profound injustice and a serious dread that my Visa debt would outlive me and my ability to pay it, I decided to detach by pulling up the living room carpet and dousing the mat and floor with StinkFree. I moved furniture and books and lamps until I was exhausted, then set up a rotating fan to dry the whole mess and went to bed with the scent of eucalyptus drifting on the air.

Lord willing and the creek don't rise, I will live to fight another day.