Homeward Bound

Friday, August 08, 2008

My trip started with a bang—and what would be the point if it didn’t end with a bang, eh? My mother and I landed in Washington DC, grabbed our car and hit I-66, raring to go home. It happened so suddenly, I only had time to react, let alone time to think. Driving peacefully up the hill, the engine suddenly wined, then screamed like metal scraping metal and the car began to buck as if I were a new driver trying to put the car into reverse while going 60. Ignoring Mom’s hiss of tension as she grabbed the “Oh, shit bar” on the door and checking my mirrors, I flicked on my emergency blinkers to warn the cars traveling 75 mph flanking my little blue car of this sudden change in plans. The car bucked so violently as I coasted to a stop that I consciously thanked whoever it was that invented seatbelts despite my occupied train of thought.

Climbing out to check the oil and tires, we were instantly greeted with warm red brake lights of a car plated from West Virginia. It was our lucky day since the white-collar D.C. workers zipping by in their 2007 Lincolns and Mercedes would never know how to identify the problem even if they had the time to stop. My first sight of our rescuer was of white wiry hair resembling that of someone who enjoyed wetting his hands and sticking his fingers in electrical sockets. A half-buttoned plaid shirt spotted with grease stains hung loosely over the man’s large stomach, matching his comfortable work jeans. I smiled at the sight, feeling closer to home despite the fact that I was only minutes from Washington D.C. “What seems to be the problem har?” the man asked in his thick, muffled accent. We explained what had happened and the man scratched his head, quiet for a minute and set to work checking the car’s fluids, wiping the greasy sticks on his plaid cotton shirt. Mom clicked her tongue disapprovingly for not using the rag she had handed him, but he chuckled, his wide Santa belly shaking, and explained that he was a mechanic.
He wanted to drive the car for a bit to run a couple of minor tests and we agreed. He suggested that we drive his car, so I walked over to the navy blue sedan and peering through its yawning windows, shook my head in wonder at the open whiskey bottle shoved hastily between the driver and passenger seats. Yes, I was certainly back in the South.

“It’s the axle, ma’am” he said confidently. Grabbing the AAA card from the glovebox, I called the road-side assistance and asked for a tow truck while Mom chatted with our altruistic helper. AAA returned my call twenty minutes later and announced that a tow truck was on its way. Announcing the news to Mom and the older man, and he said that he must be getting on his way. Later, it occurred to me that we never thought to ask his name. It didn’t matter though. He had helped us with no intention other than to make sure that we were okay, caring for nothing in return—not even the tantalizing chocolate peanut butter cups I had offered him. It’s good to be home.

Yellow lights flashing in my rearview mirror an hour later declared the arrival of our tow truck. An older man, in his 70’s perhaps, climbed from the cab, greeted us with a knowing smile and hooked the car to his truck in 5 minutes. Driving down the road to Parker’s Truckers, we told him about the diagnosis offered by the kind West Virginian and Delbert, our tow trucker, agreed wholeheartedly. “If the car’s parking brake is on and it rolls without the emergency brake then the transmission is not communicating with the front axles—yup, you’ve got a bad axle.”

Waiting in Parker’s Truckers unlit lot, we listened to two men conversing in the typical Front Royal fashion. The red-faced man in the blaze orange shirt that said “I only date MILFS” gave a big belly laugh and told Joe to come on down to have a Jack burn at the river trailer on the 30th. “It’s gonna be a good one man,” he said, rubbing the exposed skin peeking out from under his XXX Large t-shirt. “Al-rawt,” Joe said. “I’ll be sure to bring my wife, if you don’t mind.” Saying goodnight to each other, they cordially walked over to our car and wished us luck with the rest of our evening. Leaning my head out the window, I asked “What’s a Jack burn?” Joe laughed, not knowing what I was asking about. “A Jack burn?” I asked. “What’s a Jack burn?” The other man let out another hearty laugh, and corrected me: “Honey, I think you’re talking about a Jap burn.” Looking at my wide eyes, he chuckled knowingly, and said “See we like to burn Japanese motorcycles on top of fars as big as your car there. If the fire’s big enough, they’s reduced to nuttin’ but a pile a snot.” I looked at Mom, slightly speechless, but grinning at my revelation of this modernized form of Southern entertainment, naturally tinged with racism, however good-humored it may be.

Paul arrived at midnight and I drove us home in our little red pick-up truck, Mom’s leg always in the way of the gear shift as we hurtled down the dark interstate, sandwiched with tractor trailer trucks. Crashing in bed with my kitty as soon as I arrived home, I woke at 11 a.m. to Mom’s shouts. Realizing she was shouting at me to get up and grab my camera, I rolled out of bed with a tired moan and stumbled down the stairs, camera in hand. Paul was standing on the front porch holding a female copperhead, fat with pregnancy and eyes gray from molting. I raised my eyebrows, snapped some photos and returned inside to fry our fresh farm-eggs in a cast-iron skillet. Later, unpacking the army bag which housed the alpaca skin I bought in the highlands, I stepped in a pair of rubber boots so I could hang them outside. Shrieking loudly, I realized there was a wolf spider in the boot and kicked it off as quickly as possible. And I thought I left the jungle behind. Coming in a few minutes later to check my email, I turned on the computer only to realize that it was not working. Back to civilization? I guess it just depends how you think about it. But it’s good to be home.