You leave home early to drive 300 miles north for a family visit with plans for a three-day stay firmly in place. The visit could not go better. Great food, great wine, movies, shopping, presents (you love presents), and leave-taking before everyone gets tired of each other.
The car packed, hugs all
around, and you're ready to head out. You put the car in gear, a
little wave and some blown kisses and… nothing.
The engine hums, but the car does not go forward, the car does not go
backward. Denial is the go-to emotion.
For the sake of brevity, let’s just say it appears
your transmission is kaput.
You unload the car and go back inside, your
stellar leave-taking ruined like an actor who has blown his lines. Now you must figure out a way to (A) Get your
car back home to your own mechanic, and (B) Get yourself home.
You go online and find yourself sucked into the
underworld of auto shippers. One simple
request for a quote brings a barrage of offers to your inbox and, like beggar
children on the streets of Bangladesh, they are relentless. You pick a phone number
at random hoping to find someone who will not screw you over.
A guy who sounds like Gary Busey answers the
phone. You are strangely comforted by
his folksy manner and peppered language.
He assures you that every other company but his will indeed screw you
over. All brokers put your information
up on the same trucker board and then you must wait for a trucker to bid on
your job. Might take 24 hours, might
take 48. You should call him back Monday
morning, because he’s about to take off on a weekend binge. “Brokers like to party,” he laughs. You’re no
longer quite as comforted, but now you’ve entered into a “relationship” and
feel a certain obligation to make it work.
You then call the 800 number for Enterprise car
rental. You are told you may not rent a
car with a debit card, only a credit card.
Your debit card also serves as a credit card, you argue to no
avail. However, someone else can rent
the car for you with their credit card if you bring them with you when you pick
up the car. You can do that, and the car
reservation is made for pickup the next morning at ten o’clock.
Along with your cousin, you arrive at the
Enterprise Vortex-of-Hell Car Rental right on time. Their website states, "When a customer
leaves with a smile, you know you made their day a little better." This is not going to be one of those
days. Yes, they have your
reservation. Yes, your cousin may rent
the car on her credit card. No, you may
not drive it unless you have your own credit card. You point out that if you had a credit
card you would not have had to drag your cousin down here with you. The perky prepubescent behind the desk is not
moved by your logic. You continue to plead your case. The word “bullshit” might escape your lips
once or twice. You and your cousin
decide the best course of action is subterfuge.
Fuck ‘em. She’ll rent it, you’ll
drive it, authorized to do so or not.
But because of the lack of some kind of chip on her credit card, the
card will not go through. Now the cosmos
are conspiring against you, too.
You and your cousin return to her house where you announce
your intention to drink yourself blind. Your cousin offers you the use of her
car to drive home. She will be leaving
on a month-long trip that week and won’t need it. You marvel at her generosity only slightly suspecting
that it may just be her desire to be rid of you.
Meanwhile, offers to transport your vehicle
continue to flood your inbox. You begin
to question your relationship with Gary Busey.
Perhaps, in your initial panic, you were a little hasty in pledging your
allegiance to the first guy who whistled up your skirt. And let us not forget your long history of
dalliances with inappropriate men.
You troll the websites of other auto-shippers. At first it’s just a flirtation. Then,
sufficiently wooed by an impressive slideshow, you make the call. Matt Damon answers the phone. Clearly, he must be researching a role for
his next movie. He needs to run your
information by his father to give you an immediate quote. Yes.
"Immediate," he says in his dreamy, grammar-perfect voice. His father owns the company. You feel like Debra Winger in the final scene
of “An Officer and A Gentleman.” You
make the deal and send Gary Busey a kiss-off text.
The rain holds off the next day and you make it
home safely. Your car arrives from
Northern California a mere five hours after you do exactly as promised. A warm bath and you fall face-down into the
bosom of your own bed to dreams of having Matt Damon’s child.
Forty-eight hours later the verdict is still out
on your car.
Happy New Year.
