expectations. John considers the difficulty modern businesses seem to have ensuring that they do whatever they do well. He is a high school football coach, and he, for example, would never send a student out on the field with shoddy pads and risk an injury. Why in the hell would a company that puts people in an automobile not make sure their machine was safe and not going to strand their customers on a remote stretch of highway? He decides he will give them a piece of his mind when he gets back to Charleston. They will be refunding me for this.
Jan files her nails vigorously while they sit in the dark car waiting for rescue. This is somehow John’s fault, she thinks as she blows nail dust from her fingers. Jan is annoyed at the delay, though she really has nothing to do the next day. She prefers to be in her nice warm bed instead of out on this lonely cold road.
John sits, staring at the time on the face of his cell. Time seems to crawl sitting there in the dark listening to Jan’s infernal scraping and the occasional blast of air from a passing truck. The minutes tick by at half-speed while John thinks again about his uncle. Saul, tired and weak, how strange. John can not remember a time before this last trip that he had ever thought of his uncle any way other than strong. John remembers a time when he was struggling with asking Sandy James to the prom. Saul had told him that he just needed to be confident and convince himself that she would say yes. It had worked, sort of. Sandy did go to the dance with John, but she left with Sampson. Saul had been there when he’d gotten home. Saul’s response was to tell him that it didn’t matter because there would be a better girl around the next corner. Turns out that Saul was right about a better girl, just wrong about which corner.
Bright lights shine into the car, blinding both husband and wife as they look back through the rear window. A door slams. John spins quickly and looks into the side mirror. Heavy footsteps fall along the driver’s side of the car. A pair of large legs becomes visible in the reflection. A man the size of a mountain stands in dirty overalls outside the driver’s side door, smiling with brown drool spilling over his lower lip. John blinks at the grease-stained, stubble-covered face grinning at him, unable to grasp why he is there. The man spits a large ball of maroon sludge and gestures for John to roll down the window. John complies and lowers his window halfway.
“Car trouble?” The smell of gasoline, axle grease, and body odor pours into John’s nostrils, and his eyes begin to water.
“Yeah, are you from roadside assistance?” John asks with a sting in his eyes and nausea forming in the pit of his stomach.
“Is he here to help?” Jan grasps John’s forearm and leans in just close enough to get a little whiff. She pulls back waving frantically at the invisible assault of smell.
John ignores his wife, not wanting to take his eyes off the man oozing of filth.
“Yes sir, from roadside. That’s me. How about ya pop the hood and I’ll take a look-see,” he points down toward the hood release.
“Sure.” The hood opens with a faint click.
The tow truck driver fools around under the hood looking at this and checking that. John tries to watch through the small space between the base of the hood and the front of the car.
“You can’t see anything. Besides if you could, you’d have no idea what you were looking at. I’m sure he’s capable,” Jan says while she files.
“Well, I’ll have you know I spent some time in high school working on hot rods,” John shoots back in defense.
“Yeah, well that was an art degree ago,” Jan blows a kiss and gives John a wink.
After a few minutes of taking a look-see, their savior lets the hood come down with a loud thud. John opens the door and steps out to ask what the tobacco-chewing mechanic has found. The smell is much fainter out in the open air. A big rig flies by, causing John to press himself against the side of the car. The six-foot-five, two-fifty-plus pound giant of a man laughs a little at his well-dressed customer clinging to the car as it rocks from the force of the gust coming off the passing truck.
“Its shot,” the overly-stained man says as he wipes his hands with a rag dirtier then his grimy hands.
“What’s that?” John asks as he steps around to stand away from the traffic.
“The car, it’s shot. I’m gonna need to take her to the shop. You and the little lady can ride in there,” he points through the windshield of the rental.
“How long’s it gonna take?” John asks.
“We should be able to get her there in about twenty minutes or so,” he pats John on the shoulder hard enough to make it sting, “I’ll take care of ya’ll. Don’t worry about a thing.”
The tow truck driver hooks the car up and they are off, pulled behind him bouncing on the two rear tires. Riding slanted the way they are reminds Jan of a rollercoaster ride she took when she was a little girl. She remembers how it climbed to the top of the first big drop. It was just like this, leaning back, being pulled upward except then she could see the giant incline that awaited her.
John rides, watching the clamps that hold the car to the tow truck, and wringing the steering wheel with sweaty palms. Don’t fall; don’t fall repeats again and again in his head. The ride rattles his nerves. John decides to think of all the trouble he will cause the rental guys when he gets home. That brings a little relief from the fear the towing experience creates.
They exit the freeway at a speed that causes the car to bounce on and off of the pavement. Sliding, they turn down a pitch black road, heading away from the interstate and its passing traffic.
The driver pulls into the drive of a small gas station with two repair bays. The store is dark and the garage doors are closed. John notices the sign with the gas prices is out and something else is odd about it.
“Look at that. It has to be a mistake. Or we have been paying way too much for gas.” The price is 98¢ a gallon for unleaded. John thinks about it and can’t remember a time he had paid so little for gas.
“Wow, they must not sell gas here anymore,” Jan looks out of the window in wonderment like a child pulling into Disneyland.
“They’re probably just here to do repairs since they are this far from the freeway. It’s just not lucrative to provide fuel,” John says watching the driver get out of his truck and unlock one of the bay doors to open it up.
They watch from the car as they are backed into the darkness that fills the shop. The car is lowered and the truck pulls away. John opens his door.
“Just wait there,” the big guy says as he steps from his large tow truck.
John notices no labeling on the doors of the dusty rust-colored tow truck. He figures that maybe out here there isn’t a need to advertise. This grease monkey is more than likely the only one of his kind for thirty miles in any direction.
“Sure,” John sits back in his seat with the door open.
The garage door comes down with a quick clank. Bewildered, John and Jan hear the snap of a padlock.
“Hello,” John calls.
No answer, just silence.
“Hello,” John calls slightly louder.
Only a vague echo calls back.
“Hello!” John shouts.
Nothing, not a sound beyond Jan’s heavy breathing.
“Hello. We’re in here,” John looks around for an exit. It’s so dark he can’t make out anything a few feet from the dim light produced from the small dome bulb in the car.
“Where did he go?” Jan asks.
“I don’t know,” John pulls a knob and the headlights burst from the front of the car.
The light reflects off the doors and walls of the small garage. The doors are covered with plywood and there aren’t any other access points that John can see. It feels hot in the confined space. Jan begins to shake as she searches the room for an escape. The walls are; bare not one tool could be seen. Empty, the whole damn place is empty.
John pulls his cell from his pocket. No signal he holds the phone up, down, and to the left and right with no
success. Jan tries hers with the same outcome.
The muscles in John’s shoulders feel as if they might snap from the strain. Jan’s face flushes with panic. John sees his wife’s lips quiver and begins to count silently, breathing intensely. One, he looks down at his shaking hands. Two, Jan begins whispering a prayer. Three, he concentrates on his breathing fully. Four, he thinks about how he lost his parents. Five, he pictures his Uncle Saul telling him to keep a stiff upper lip.
“Okay, I’m going to go look for a way out. You stay here,” John reaches over his panic-stricken love and searches the glove box for a light or something that could be used as a weapon. No luck, just a useless owner’s manual and a placard reminding renters not to smoke in the vehicle.
“Where are you going?” Jan grabs a hold of John’s arm as he begins to step from the vehicle.
“To look for a way out,” John leans in and kisses Jan softly on the cheek. “It’s alright. I’ll be right back.” He gives her a wink and climbs out into the garage.
A horrible smell like rotting meat smacks John in the face as he walks across the pitted concrete floor. Jan stares through fright-filled eyes as her husband crosses the room on tiptoe. John places a hand against the wall across from the car to find it is padded. Why? He wonders why anyone would pad walls in a repair shop. He thinks that the padding might be like what music studios used to keep out unwanted sounds. Why?, he thinks again.