Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: TUESDAY, January 26, 1993 TAG: 9301260038
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV-2 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
SOURCE: Michael Stowe
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
STRANGERS WERE LOVELY; CAR WASN'T
A true Southerner, Blanche DuBois, put it best: "I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers," she purred in Tennessee Williams' "A Street Car Named Desire."While I've never considered myself a true Southerner, I was glad to depend on some Southern hospitality last weekend.
After my car rang out with a loud pop, sputtered and finally died on an Interstate 81 exit ramp about 15 miles north of Lexington, my prospects seemed grim.
An hour from home, with little knowledge of cars and only my-less-than-muscular (but beautiful) girlfriend with me, I looked at the two service stations to my right and the reasonably steep hill that separated us.
So imagine my gratitude when a young couple pulled up in their car and said the words every stranded motorist, especially me, wants to hear: "Do you need some help?"
This couple, who, I believe followed us off the interstate after I turned on my hazard lights, helped me push - first by hand, then, when that effort failed, bumper-to-bumper - to the nearest service station.
I thanked them then, but I'll thank them again now. I'm only sorry I didn't get their names.
Now what to do?
The foul stench of oil burning on the engine surrounded Gretchen and me as we stood in the cold darkness behind the Exxon station's convenience store and watched the smoke streaming from beneath the hood of my 1984 Ford LTD.
I was trying to figure out what had gone wrong, how this could ever happen to my ever-reliable vehicle. Gretchen, however, already had a theory.
"Karma," she said. I was being punished for being rude to my girlfriend.
Only moments before my car went kaput, Gretchen had given me some driving advice from the passenger's seat and I had snapped at her, "Just let me drive."
Big mistake. Not only did Gretchen give me the silent treatment, but my car too . . . Is there no mercy?
Anyway, not knowing exactly what was wrong, I hoped to let the car sit a while, cool down and then make the 90-mile trek home to Blacksburg.
No such luck. My car was as dead as a doornail.
The closest people who loved me enough to brave the chilly night and pick us up - my parents - were just sitting down to dinner 70 miles away in their Roanoke home.
I called anyway and they agreed to come. But it would take about 80 minutes.
We gulped down snacks and sodas bought from the two nice women who ran Mickey's deli inside the service station as we sat and waited and worried.
One of the women, Judy, a lively conversationalist, kept us company by telling us about her daughter, her love for the Dallas Cowboys and the time a man with a shotgun had robbed her while she was working at a roadside store.
She offered us "delicious fried chicken" for half-price and even felt sorry enough for us to give us free coffee.
Finally, my parents arrived and we left my car and the friendly folks of Fairfield behind.
But my dependence didn't end there.
For the next week, I was a bother to many of my friends and co-workers, bumming rides to work, to the grocery store and numerous other places.
I also spent the week feeling helpless because the car I usually take for granted sat in a tiny garage nearly two hours from the New River Valley.
Daily, I called to get a diagnosis and on Wednesday I got the bad news: Two head gaskets blown, both heads warped and one of the heads cracked.
So, guys, let this be a lesson: Don't snap at your girlfriend while driving; the life of your car may depend on it.
Gretchen's thoughts followed the what-goes-around-comes-around adage, and what came around for me was a repair bill for about $700.
Michael Stowe covers Blacksburg and business in the New River Valley.