Foxy

High noon: Friday, 3 March, 2006. I am driving south on the interstate, on the way to a lunch date with my best friend in Charlotte. The radio is going full tilt, and my stomach is still quaking with some of the worst indigestion in my life. There is a smile on my face, because irregardless of how much pain I am in, this is my birthday weekend. Cue the groans and grindings of my engine, crying out. I turn off the radio to determine the meaning of what is about to happen. The entire stationwagon shutters, followed by a frightening BANG from under the hood, and in the rearview mirror a large cloud of smoke is seen firing out of the muffler. I sarcastically mutter "Ok, ok," as the steering column begins to lock halfway through my merge from the far left lane to the righthand shoulder. Instantaneously, the stationwagon, my beloved friend of the past five years, shuts itself off. Smoke spews from the engine. In my shock and bewilderment, two men in a compact car have pulled off the interstate with me. As they reverse in the grass to pull alongside of my steaming car, I am able to call my mother to tell her where I am and what happened. A large gentleman in the aforementioned vehicle says to me through the window, "We saw what happened. Do you want us to take a look [under the hood]?"

His companion, a methodical man with a heavy NC triad dialect [and strong resemblance to Golden Globe winner Chris Cooper] attempts to pry open the hood, and within a few minutes all three of us are looking into the heat of my now exasperated engine. Oil is slowly dripping onto the asphalt. As there is little for the gentlemen to do, they tell me what exit ramp we're all standing on, help me push the car into the grass, make sure I have someone to call for help, and are on their way. Thank goodness I was not far from town, and that I have kept my AAA membership going. 1.5 hours later, a towtruck arrives. Being a lone woman on the side of the interstate in the middle of a not-very-warm day, you can't exactly go for a walk to pass the time. The cellphone kept me company, ringing every five minutes: AAA tried to send me a locksmith, Hazel called to make plans for that evening, and my parents juggled me between meetings and making real estate offers.

A silent man, whom I shall refer to as "Bif," drove up in his towtruck, with a mouthful of pizza, and soon we were off to the dealership. It's always comforting when the man driving you to absolution has no idea where he's going. My uncle had told me that there was a Toyota dealership closeby on South Main, and that is where Bif took us. In my earnest to get out of the steaming stationwagon and move on with the day, I had done three things: left the car unlocked, left my bright orange purse on the seat in plain view, and stowed away my apartment keys. When a person is in shock, as in "OMG, the timing of this could not be worse," a person doesn't think about these things, and nor do they hear Bif offering a piece of pizza on the drive to the service station.

Folks at car dealerships are so friendly. Artificially so, when a lone female in a skirt wearing the look of shock enters the mechanic's office. A babyfaced man (we'll call him "T.M.") tried to work his chipper "Hey, how are you doin ta'day?" angle on me, and stopped mid-sentence at my abrupt approach. "Oh, did I scare you? You don't look like you're havin a good day!" A brief conversation ensued, and I was told to wait in chairs whilst a bear of a man assessed my engine. When Ramsey is upset, she does not sit in chairs. I think a brain tumor, from the amount of time I spend on cellphones when in peril, is in my future. Car salesmen, brushing past me with the aforementioned ersatz manners, did not deter me from finding a ride out of that place. An unidentified man sitting in chairs was not reading the paper he held up in front of his nose: no, no. He was totally eavesdropping on my calls made in the kid's play area. T.M. came at me with a clipboard and a ridiculous look on his face, telling me he had bad news. Before he could finish telling me that my engine had suffered much like my GI tract, that is, been without the necessary lubrication to alieviate the exertion of powering through the day, said bearlike mechanic came in from the garage and looked me like, "oh yeah, that's your car that's toast." As anyone with an older vehicle knows, the mechanics will either try to give you a list of expensive repairs needed and/or suggest you buy a new car. Totalled twice, my 1990 Toyota Camry V6 stationwagon was the one thing I clung to through the real world I entered after college graduation. And now, he was dead. The oil pump had ceased to give the engine oil, drying it out and throwing it into the seizure I had just experienced on the interstate. There had been no indication, and there was plenty of oil in the tank.

15 minutes later, my uncle picked me up. I had been pacing in the dealership parking lot, and having turned away one car salesman and T.M. trying to get me to look at cars, my uncle drove me to his house. My luggage for the birthday weekend trip, filled with warmer weather things for Charleston, was now in his trunk. On the ride, we discussed our mutual admiration for black comedians, and he insisted that I borrow his hot rod and go see my girl in Charlotte. This exchange is how Foxy, pictured at the top of this blog, came into my life.

For an environmentalist to be driving an '86 Trans Am American beast of a muscle car is not only ironic, it's an f-in riot! The looks that people give me, the number of cars loaded with men sadling up to me on the interstate to get a better look, make me howl with laughter. I shoot them glances back, as if to say "Oh, yeah!" and "Girl don't match the car, do it?" My friend was without breath, she was so hysterical, when I parked next to her upon my arrival in Charlotte. What happened over the weekend will be discussed in the blog to come.