This never would have happened to Starsky or Hutch.
I’ve written about my wonder car before – the 1998 Honda Civic with the cracked windshield and missing trim, right?
As I was driving the kids to Tess’s eye appointment Monday, there was a situation. Just as I pulled out onto one of the busiest streets in the city, the car lurched forward – I heard a loud “pop” and thought I had run over a garbage can lid or something like that, although I didn’t see anything anywhere. Weird, I think to myself.
I put the car in first gear (it’s a stick shift) and step on the gas; nothing. I throw on the flashers. I put the car in reverse; nothing. The hell? Now of course, the cars are zooming by us and Tess is asking questions nonstop. I call my husband – no answer.
I realize at this point that I am the adult, so I need to figure something out quickly. And let me tell you, that was the worst part of this whole experience – realizing I am now a grownup, and not just any grownup, a grownup responsible for the lives of two small children. I kept looking around for other adults to tell me what to do next. So, I roll the car down the hill and as I’m turning onto the side street, a car appears (I almost didn’t see it). A woman, no older than me, who looks exactly like Maggie Gyllenhaal, gets out and asks if I need help. Yes! You be the adult for me, okay? Tell me what to do, please. We got the car off the busy street and I call my husband again – still no answer.
Maggie suggests that we park it in the adjacent driveway for a minute to get it out of the way. I suggest we roll it back a little farther and park on the street, between the two mailboxes along the curb. Yes, I think to myself, good adult suggestion. She is kind enough to push the car and tells me to get in and guide the car with my foot. Now, as you already know, in order for one to guide a car with one’s foot, the door needs to be open so said foot can touch pavement. Remember when I suggested we park it between the two mailboxes?
She’s pushing the car, I’m guiding it and she yells “Watch your door! Your door!” Her helpful suggestion was too late. There is now only one standing mailbox. I throw on the parking brake and as she goes to the house (where she had suggested, in a very grownup manner, we park the car anyway), I am frantically trying to yank the downed mailbox out from underneath my car door. Tess and Jack are now both crying. I tug at the mailbox while trying to calm my children without cursing. That’s tough to do. I finally get it out from underneath my door and am hurriedly shoving the poor guy’s mail back into his demolished mailbox.
The man was nicer than I expected after I murdered his mailbox. He must have seen the two crying children in the back of my car. An older gentleman had come out with him, wearing his Member’s Only jacket (awesome) and smoking a cigarette. “What’s the problem?” the Member asks, and I tell him my car died and so did his mailbox. I apologize to both of them profusely and the homeowner (non-Member) tells me not to worry about it. “I’ll pay for it,” I say. He replies, “It’s just a post, it’s no big deal. Are you okay? Do you need to call someone?” Seriously, there are nice people in the world.
I try to call my husband for the seventh time and non-Member tells me he’ll give me a ride home, since it’s only three blocks away. Maggie also offers us a ride and stays with me because, like any paranoid woman, she doesn’t want a strange man (in the sense that I don’t know him “strange”) to drive us anywhere. I finally get ahold of my husband, who leaves one of his high-powered executive meetings to rescue us.
Tess is crying again as non-Member pulls up next to us and I thank him again and let him know that my husband is on his way. He tells me not to worry about the mailbox and goes inside. As Maggie and I are standing around, I explain that I’m a really good driver and it’s my car, not me that screwed up. She spies the giant scrape across the back bumper and again, I explain, really, I’m a good driver – I was attacked by a retaining wall. She laughs and points to her driver side mirror and says she was attacked by her garage.
Maggie offers her (real) name and number in case non-Member tries to come after me for the mailbox. “So you can tell the insurance company that you told me to watch out for his mailbox right before I smashed it?” I ask. She laughs and says she hadn’t thought of that. I thank her again and asked her why she stopped. “Because I have a little boy and I would have wanted someone to help me if that had happened to me.” Nice people exist. Amazing.
She drives off as my wonderful husband pulls up. We get the kids in his car, he drives us home and goes back to take a look at the old Civic. I check our auto insurance, thinking I have towing and rental car on both cars. Turns out, it’s just on his newer car – because that makes more sense. Have that on the more reliable car and not the 12 year- old-break-down-waiting-to-happen car.
We assume it’s the transmission and have it towed to a shop that specializes in that. When they finally called my husband back, they tell him they’re still “diagnosing” it, but they think it’s something really simple, or something really expensive (could be cancer, could be heartburn, still running tests). Meanwhile, my husband is bumming a ride to work and I get to drive the kids around in his car until we hear back from the specialists.
I stayed calm. I soothed my children, and we made it out alive. This grownup stuff is hard work. I don’t know that I care for it all that much.
By the way, I left $20 in non-Member’s door with a note thanking him for his help and apologizing for destroying his mailbox. See? More grownup stuff. I didn’t leave my number or name – I might be a grownup, but I’m not stupid.
