Car Troubles

Twice a year Bill and I can no longer fight the urge to see our families so we hop into the Saturn for the 18-hour 1,200-mile ride to Appleton. We have made the trip quite a few times now and have become confident with our abilities. We stop for gas and switch drivers every 4 hours. We know the CDs that will help pass the time and both have our energy drinks of choice. We know bringing the cat is not a good idea and have resigned ourselves to the fact that we will get lost trying to get onto the Chicago toll road no matter how many times we look at the directions.

So imagine our surprise when 4 hours into our most recent trip home, things started to go awry. The temperature gauge made a beeline to the scary red part and everything started to go downhill. Bill suggested we pull-off and check out the engine. After popping open the hood, he made the following conclusion: there was a suspicious creamy foam coming out of the car and the car was still running even after it was turned off. What did this mean, “I have not idea, but I know it’s not good.” We waited for the engine to stop running and then drove the car to the nearest gas station. And then the next gas station because the first was not helpful. A friendly tow-truck driver at the second gas station told us we probably needed the radiator flushed which, of course, we couldn’t do until morning so just keep driving and add the proper liquids as needed until tomorrow morning. Bill and I began discussing the implications of this plan, when gas station owner, Tony, came over.
Bill: There’s something wrong with our radiator.
Tony: Yeah? Where are you going?
Bill: Wisconsin.
Tony looks at the engine: Not in that car you aren’t. I’ve got a friend. Let me give him a call.

An hour and a half later, Tony’s friend, Louie, pulls up to check out our car.
Louie: Oh. This doesn’t look good. I’m sorry; I can’t fix this.
Bill: We’ve got to get to Wisconsin.
Louie: Well, I feel real bad for you. I’ve got this friend…

An hour later we paid $80 in cash to stay overnight in a sleazy hotel, our car is parked in a parking garage with Louie’s friend watching it, and we are no closer to getting to Wisconsin.

The next morning, Bill and I come up with a plan: we’ll take a cab to the county airport, rent a car, get the Saturn towed, and be on our way.

The cab ride goes smoothly. Renting a car does not. I am 4 months shy of the 25-year-old age restriction and the computer has caught my lie.
Rental Guy: Are you aware that there is a $50 per day “Young Drivers” fee?
Beth, with a big sigh: Yes.
Rental Guy: That will be $1250.
Beth: No. We can’t do that.

30 minutes and a minor crying jag later…
Rental Guy comes our from behind the counter: Hey, for like $100 cash I could wave the “Young Drivers” fee.
Beth and Bill: YES!

Rental Guy comes out to “help us with our luggage,” Bill shakes his hand while slipping him the money, and we’ve got ourselves a car large enough to fit a family of 8.

Our only other snag was that a tow truck wouldn’t fit in the parking garage so Bill and I had to push it out while waiting for the driver, who of course was a friend of the mechanic, who was a friend of Louie.

15 hours later we were in Wisconsin ready to laugh about our run-in with the White Plains mob.