A Car Called Wanda: Part Two
by James Roland
The heat gauge never rose past halfway.
The thing is, when the heat gauge is broken, this means absolutely nothing.
It also means that, when you have a slow radiator leak, your car engine can explode while driving 75 mph on the I-5 Freeway.
No power, no real steering, and five lanes of traffic later, I sat with Wanda, sick and dying on the side of the road. Each SUV and Semi rocked her chassis, rocking me in my seat.
I called my friends before my cell battery died. They were on their way, Dan and Becca in their cars, Titus on his motorcycle. I sat in the dark, ruined by sporadic headlights, unable to sleep, unable to call.
It was Monday. At the end of my first day on a new job.
My friends arrived and we poured a gallon of water into my radiator until it gushed from the center of my engine block like Old Faithful in reverse.
Time to call the tow truck. Who has Triple-A?
Shrug.
Shrug.
Shrug.
Anyone? How old are we? 18? 19? Nope, all a half decade from 30 with no responsibility in sight. Except for the woman (project opinions here, please). We called Becca’s insurance company.
Ring, ring, ring. 45 minutes. Wait. Wait. Wait.
Becca had a Honda Accord as well, although it was a lighter color and 12 years younger than Wanda. Luckily, it was dark, and tow truck drivers don’t ask questions.
The consensus was unanimous, out of four people we all agreed that every tow truck driver was dirty, rude, corrupt, and smelt of B.O. lightly veneered with Old Spice.
I don’t remember their names, but I think of them as C.J. and Pedro. They tumbled out of the truck like slightly stoned, blue collar Smothers Brothers impersonating an acrobat team. I’m pretty sure they didn’t somersault to the ground, cross legs in front of each other, spread their arms wide and flicker Jazz Hands at us . . . but in my upset, ultra-tired delirium, who can say for sure?
C.J.: “Hey boss, we’ll take care of you. We’re taking you to Santa Barbara?”
Me: “Santa Clarita.”
C.J.: “No worries, I know where San Bernadino is.”
Pedro: “Have you ever run across a freeway?”
Me: *shakes head*
C.J.: *staring blankly and counting silently on his fingers, looks at me* “Gotta remember how to do this.”
Pedro ran halfway across the freeway, made a sound like an angry barn owl, ran back.
Pedro: “You’re doing it wrong.”
C.J.: “Shut up fool, you don’t even work here.”
Pedro: “It’s true man, I got nothing to do so I like to ride all night.”
C.J.: “All set. You riding with us? I don’t remember how to get to Santa Cruz.”
C.J. drove. I sat in the front passenger seat. Pedro was in the back. It was quiet in the dark for a while, then the phone rang with another pick-up.
C.J.: *handing phone to Pedro* “Answer that dude, and get their location and phone number. Then call Dispatch, get the job I.D., and call them back with a quote.” *to me now* “You like my interior? It’s Louis Vatton, Dude.”
I leaned forward to inspect the interior of the cab, which was in fact covered with a cheap Louis Vatton knock off print.
Pedro: *click* “Hello? Can I get your job I.D. number?”
C.J.: “No, fool!”
Pedro: “I mean your phone number?”
I laughed to myself.
Pedro: “Are you Jewish?”
I blinked stoically with shock. How could he ask a client that question? He tapped me on the shoulder.
Pedro: “Dude, are you Jewish?”
C.J.: “Dude, get back on the phone!”
Pedro: “Oh yeah.”
And so it went for twenty miles.
By the time we dropped off the car and I had convinced them that Becca wasn’t in fact my fiance (plus reminding them that I owed them money), they swerved their way back to the freeway in search of another client.
I arrived home laughing and didn’t even think about Wanda until Dan gave me his car keys so I could get back and forth from work.
The next day I got the prognosis. A blown head gasket and warped engine. She spewed oil like she was coughing blood. $2,500.
Within a week I found a wrecking service that could take her for free.
I even got $50 in cash.
She went away on a flat bed truck.
I had driven her for seven years.
I think I left a pair of sandals under the driver seat.
Becca took off for England and loaned me her car for two weeks. That left me with a major decision: Did I buy a clunker or the motorcycle I’d been planning to buy for a potential road trip?
If I were to buy a motorcycle, I would have exactly one week to find one and one week to learn how to drive it.
Late that night I began to search E-bay . . . .
