AN: All names of people, companies, and locations in this blog have now been changed. If anyone ever refers to a "Dorothy," that is me.
I've always maintained that Mondays bring disasters, and September 3rd was one in spades. Tuesday was its partner in crime.
So let's begin.
On Monday at noon, after finishing the last of my packing, meeting with my friend Ellen, and giving her a set of keys to look after my apartment, I met with Jack and Jenn, and the three of us finally hit the road. I can't tell you how excited I've been for this day. I also can't tell you just how many things have gone disastrously wrong since the hour of our departure.
…no. That's a lie. I'm going to tell you exactly how many things have gone wrong. Although I'll warn you: you might start to think I'm making it up.
We made it about 2 1/2 hours outside of Chicago before stopping to fuel up the car, that shiny, gleaming 2012 Impala, rented to us by Sunrise. There was one odd, retrospectively comical moment where all three of us were crowded around the gas nozzle, looking at it with perplexed expressions and wondering why it didn't quite fit properly to the opening of our tank, before every one of us shrugged it off with, "Well that's odd."
We were less than a mile down the road before the engine began to sputter helplessly and we slowly realized that something had gone horribly wrong.
As it turns out, the tiny little gas station in Cassandra Falls, IL did not have the correct nozzle on their diesel fuel pump. Yes, we had filled that beautiful car with diesel. And on Labor Day, no less, meaning there was unlikely to be a mechanic open for love or money. But no need to worry! My father, bless him, pays for me to have AAA roadside assistance. So I had them on the phone within minutes, while Jenn called to explain to our producer what had happened and where we were. The man, who is just this side of being a con-artist and a full-time despicable human being, yelled and cursed at Jenn, practically bringing her to tears.
Now let me clarify: We called Roger because he told us to contact him first if anything went wrong. He told us that the cars were insured up to their ears and that he has a great, long-standing relationship with Sunrise. He told us that if there were ever a possibility that we were going to be late to a performance, we should call him immediately so that he could talk to the school and "cover for us." Oh yes, Roger Lucie sold us only the finest quality of bullshit before he convinced us to sign our contracts.
I was ordered to cancel the tow truck AAA was sending me. We were forbidden from speaking with Sunrise. Then we were instructed to "sit tight" for the next few hours while he figured out what to do with us. You see, the fine man didn't want us to allegedly ruin his relationship with Sunrise, and using AAA would leave a paper trail, proving, according to our beloved boss, that we had permanently destroyed that car.
Well, we sat tight all right, for over an hour before he finally called, informing us in very colorful language that there was nothing he could do for us. We were going to have to find someone locally and pay them in cash, once again so that there could be no paper trail following the incident.
So here we are in Cassandra Falls, population: I can probably count it on my toes, with one sad, broken and abused Chevy. I'll tell you something, though. God bless the people in that tiny town. The women working the counter at the gas station were bending over backwards to help Jack and Jenn find a mechanic, while I was outside looking damsel-in-distress-ish beside our car and buttering up old men who reminded me of my grandfather until one of them, an elderly, slightly toothless gentleman named Dan, offered to help me. The sweet man kept stopping by every twenty minutes to check on whether we were okay. The name of the mechanic Dan gave me didn't pan out, but we greatly appreciated his kindness just the same.
Eventually the woman at the gas station found us a couple of local mechanics willing to come take a look at our car. We've dubbed them "Bo and Luke" as we never caught their actual names. Meanwhile, people living in homes across from the gas station had come out on their porches to stare at us, possibly the most interesting thing to happen in that town for months.
Bo, Luke, and their boss showed up and began attempting to siphon diesel from the car, ultimately having to tow the car around the block to their garage, where Jenn, Jack, and I could only sit helplessly on the gravel a few yards away and watch as they hoisted our automobile up on a rack and drained the diesel from the car's belly, a process begun by Luke, who apparently drew the short straw and had to actually suck on the hose to get the fuel flowing. Poor guy will be swishing Listerine for weeks.
An hour or so into this process (now several hours since we last spoke with our producer), Roger called to make sure we didn't have some bum-hicks (but again in more colorful terms) working on the $25,000 car.
Jack, with an expression of grim anger and incredulity on his face said firmly, "I would say we have the best in town working on it."
A few more curses, insults, and twenty minutes later the charming man hung up. Finally.
And we waited. The last drops of diesel finally drained from the tank, we watched them refill it with gasoline of questionable origins (I'm not saying they stole it; I'm just saying I don't know who paid for it.). Then, we watched with tragic expressions as they revved the engines and thick clouds of smoke and exhaust fumes enveloped the car. We listened to the engine cough and hiccup and stammer, praying that it could burn through the remaining diesel in the engine and work its way through the good gasoline.
This continued for several hours while the three of us watched from a distance. Jenn hugged her knees. I laid my head on Jack's legs and stared into oblivion. Jack gazed at the swirls of smoke mutely. The sun long since sunk below the horizon, we watched the stars come out, prayed, and laughed to keep from crying.
To be continued…
Read Part II here.
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