Unhappy Motoring: Not Once, But Twice

It’s been a rough week. Monday afternoon, Q called my cell phone to tell me that he got a flat tire on the freeway. I offered to go pick him up, but he told he already called a tow truck and to “sit tight”—he’ll call me back if he needs me.

Not being one to obey orders, I hopped in the Mustang and raced into the city. En route, Q called to tell me that the tow truck driver installed the spare and he’s now on the way to the shop to get the tire fixed. He asked me to meet them there.

It was going to take a few hours before a mechanic can get to our car. No big deal. Q and I grabbed lunch at the sandwich place next door, and I drove him back to his office. He picked the car up after work.

Not willing to be outdone by the Dodge, the Mustang, decided to act up too. Yes, that’s right. That night…that VERY SAME NIGHT, as I was leaving the college, the car wouldn’t start. I called Q: “What’s it doing?” he asked. “It. Won’t. STARRRRTT!!!!!” I yelled back. “When I turn the key, it makes a fluttering sound”.

We agreed that I have a dead battery. Some nice people visiting nearby gave me a jump start, but it didn't keep. I only got 5 miles up the road before the car stalled again.

Long story short, the car didn’t make it home. The Mustang died altogether in the middle of 67th Ave. Luckily, a bunch of really nice people pushed it into a parking lot. Q and the boys were on the scene within minutes. It was almost 10:00 so Checker’s was already closed. So we locked up the car and left it in the Boston Market parking lot.

Yesterday morning, Q and I drove back down there. We bought a new battery, installed it, and all was good in the world. But still, I was flustered. Why, oh, WHY can’t we have car trouble in the safety of our own garage? Heck, even a well-lit parking lot, where all the businesses are open wouldn’t be so bad! Why do all of our breakdowns have to take place on desolate roads, busy freeways with very little shoulder, and dark parking lots, late at night?