My friend Carolyn may never go to lunch with me ever again. Bad things happen when we go to lunch.
Several years ago we were on our way back to work after running some errands and grabbing some lunch. About 3 miles from work my van died. Just stopped running mid-drive. I was able to pull off the main road and coast to a stop in front of somebody’s house. Then I do what I do every time I have car trouble…I called Lee. We ended having the car towed to a mechanic who had to replace my transmission.
About a year ago Carolyn and I were driving on the interstate. Out of nowhere a big white bucket came skipping across the road. I slammed on my brakes, fishtailing, and narrowly escaping getting hit from behind. And I still hit the bucket. We escaped an accident, but my front end seemed to shake a little bit. A few weeks later Lee discovered my 4WD didn’t work. The bucket had broken my front differential and torsion bar (you know I just asked Lee “what did that bucket break on my truck?” because I have no flipping clue what a front differential and torsion bar…although I have a feeling the front differential is in the front).
And today we ran out to Subway to get some lunch…and the truck wouldn’t start. In the bad part of town.
Yeah, I think Carolyn’s done with me. Or at least she’ll probably drive from now on.
My truck has been having this problem where it doesn’t always want to start. For the last couple of days Lee has occasionally had to beat the gas tank (or something) with a baseball bat to get it started. It’s never not started for me though. I figured it was just something Lee was doing wrong.
But today Carolyn and I came out of Subway, mouths watering in anticipation of our yummy sandwiches, and the truck wouldn’t start. I had the bat in the backseat, but (1) I am not getting out of my truck in the bad part of town with a baseball bat. That’s just asking for trouble. (2) I have no idea what I’m really supposed to be hitting with this bat. With my luck I’d hit the wrong thing and end up blowing up the whole truck. And (3) you know I’m not getting on the dirty ground to crawl under some filthy truck.
So I did what I do best. I called Lee. But he didn’t answer. I called the home phone. No answer. I called Lee’s cell again. Nothing. I was starting to panic. So I called Keaton.
“Where’s Dad?” I demanded.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
“Well go find him. It’s an emergency.”
About 15 minutes later Lee pulled up in the van. He crawled under the truck, smacked it with the baseball bat, and we were up and running again.
But clearly there was something wrong with it. It’s fine when it won’t start when Lee’s driving it, but we just can’t have that when I’m driving it. So we switched cars.
A couple of blocks later I realized I left my backpack in the backseat of the truck. Lee was right behind me. So at the red light I leaped out of the van, ran to the truck, grabbed my bag, and ran back to the van. The old guy in the van next to me shook his head at me. I flashed him my best toothy smile.
Turns out my fuel pump is bad. I guess we know what Lee will be doing tomorrow.