|
|
THIS IS A STORY about the wonders of the Great American Automobile, a story about the kindness of folks from one of my favorite cities, and a love story.
A week ago, my wife met a fellow Mary Washington College alum in Baltimore in the afternoon, and I planned to join them for an Orioles game.
Sounds easy, right? It would have been--in a working vehicle. But like all good husbands, upon marriage I ceded my working vehicle to my wife. That left me with her 1990 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera.
Anyway, my wife headed to Baltimore in our 2003 Toyota Corolla, which left me to drive the Olds--emphasis on "old"-- up after work.
And I did. At least, I drove it to King George. The trip from there to Baltimore was more like a test of endurance. A mental marathon. One of those times when you realize a degree from a fancy liberal-arts college doesn't mean you're really that smart. Why? Because a smart person would never have attempted the endeavor I did.
U.S. 301 was my alternate route of choice this day, as I figured rush-hour traffic on the Wilson Bridge would delay my prompt arrival before the Anaheim Angels took their first turn at bat.
Problem was, the Oldsmobile's engine started stalling as I neared the Navy base at Dahlgren. But I figured that was just because the air-conditioner was running at full blast. So I turned the fan down, and I made it across the spooky--and seemingly misnamed--Nice Bridge over the Potomac.
But on 301, I would have lost a race with Fred Flintstone. The car was fine as long as I didn't have to stop at an intersection. However, if you've driven on 301 in southern Maryland, you know it contains approximately 6 billion stoplights.
I stalled at every one. I mean, the car must have stopped 30 times.
But this is OK, I thought. At least no one up here knows me.
That's when I saw Marise Allen, who works at Crown Jewelers in Fredericksburg. I didn't know whether to be embarrassed that my car seemed to be falling apart under me, or perplexed about why I was seeing a local that far away from home.
Ms. Allen was the consummate gentle lady, though, and calmly told me that antifreeze had splashed out of the Olds a ways back. Unfortunately, giving me specific mechanical information is like telling a baboon that the interest rates are going down again: Even if I knew what that meant, there was nothing I could do about it.
Thus I soldiered on. I made it to Maryland Route 5, where I was to begin a short career as a demolition-derby driver.
That's right. I stalled out at a stoplight and a very nice man rear-ended me. Sure, it wasn't nice that he rear-ended me. But as the accident effected no damage, my fellow derby driver agreed to follow me to the entrance of the Beltway in exchange for me not falsely claiming whiplash and suing him.
(My wife has said that this story is too long when I go through it, so I'll fast-forward. Suffice it to say I stalled again on the interstate, took off onto the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, and made it into town.)
And that's where--guess what?--I stalled again as soon as I reached a red light.
I managed to will the car through a neighborhood near the ballpark, but the Olds decided it had had enough.
Before I could say things that can't be printed in a family newspaper, however, guys from the neighborhood appeared out of nowhere and pushed my car out of the road and into a service station parking lot. Imagine someone in the metro D.C. area doing that.
After the car had sat at the gas station for better than five innings, I returned to the Scene of the Kindness, hoping desperately that the rest break would rejuvenate the jalopy. I hopped in and turned the ignition key as if I was in one of those contests in which you win a new car if the key you pick starts the engine.
I won. Except I received only the same old car I had when I started the day.
Now, you've read about Baltimore kindness. And you're getting sick of hearing about auto stuff. Where's the love part of the story? you wonder.
That came when my wife, following me in what is now known at our house as the "good car," bounded out of her vehicle at a Baltimore stoplight, risking life and limb (and the possibility that someone would steal the car, which was running, of course) to hand me an extra cup of coffee so that I would stay awake as I drove our clunker home to Village Lane.
Forget that chick-flick stuff. That was real love.
And it was the moment when I began to think less about what would happen if the car broke down for good, and more about how much mileage I'd get out of this story.
JONATHAN HUNLEY is an editorial-page assistant and columnist with The Free Lance-Star.