berowne.com

The birthday party was a huge success. We found an early Mass in the little Michigan resort, and hit the road immediately after. Incorporating time for a few stops, we would be home in ten hours – time for Sunday dinner. It was on I-94 in Indiana, just 20 miles short of Chicago, when the Nissan’s transmission shrugged off its mortal coil. And a few mechanical ones as well. I pulled over to the shoulder amid frightening clunking noises and the smell of hot motor oil. I turned to my wife and in my wisdom declared the obvious, “We won’t be home tonight.”

Two iPhones and an iPad went into action. Between my wife, son and me, we worked like special agents to locate the closest towing service and repair shop open on a Sunday. I reminded my son he was getting the double benefit of quality time with his parents and a life skill lesson at the same time. I’m sure I saw a glint of admiration in his eyes. Well, pretty sure.

The muscular white tow truck came up behind us, Road Vulture IV painted on the hood. It pulled beyond our car and backed into position. I stepped out of our expensive paperweight just as a short, stocky man climbed down from the truck. A cigar stub waggled from the side of his mouth. He had dark, bug-like sunglasses and an ancient blue baseball cap. His dingy shirt boasted “Bill” on the pocket.

“One option on Sunday,” he puffed.

“Sears Auto at the Marquette Mall?” I offered.

“Yep. You can stay in the car for the ride.” He started up the winch without another word. He was not impressed with our technology.

Ninety minutes later, Sears told us that our transmission was a special kind of dead, and a Nissan dealership would need to tackle the problem. I dialed, and could smell the cigar when Bill answered. He was free and would have the Road Vulture hoisting the Nissan again within the hour. He rumbled in with a fresh stogie trailing smoke down the street.

“Take us to the dealership in Chesterton?”

“Yep.” Everyone at Sears knew him, and he chatted for a few minutes.

I smiled at him. “You’re the mayor of this town!”

He grinned, cigar pointing up. “Yep!”

Once again, we rode in the car nestled in the bed of the tow truck, rocking violently, and feeling our emotions transition from “oh crap” to “whatever, it’s an adventure.” I booked a hotel in Chesterton, after finding that the dealership was closed, and Bill offered to take us to the hotel first, so the wife and son could check in and relax. Nice. After dropping off the family, I rode high in the Nissan alone with Bill waving at local cop cars as we swayed along the county road.

I filled out the form on the envelope, dropped in the key, and shoved it through the slot in the dealership door. I asked Bill what I owed him, and he said I could pay him at the hotel. I demurred, but he said that there was no reason to pay for a taxi on top of a tow fee.

I climbed into the cab, patriotic country music bleating through tiny speakers. Cigar cartons carpeted the floor. Bill ground the stick into first gear, and I wondered why my transmission had died. I asked him how business was. He responded that his company had laid off a few guys over the past year, but he was OK. Other tow services had gotten the state contracts, but they had screwed up, and his company always got the business back.  He didn’t trust the stock market, but he tucked a few thousand a month into money market funds, and that was good enough for him. I was impressed. And thankful to him as we pulled up to the hotel.

I signed the receipt, and shook his hand. Bill turned his buggy sunglasses to me and said that the dispatcher let him know there was a heavy thunderstorm on the way.

“You need the rain here?”

“Yep.”

I climbed down to the street. The Road Vulture scraped into gear and careened down the road, fuel and tobacco emissions trailing proudly and patriotically behind. Thanks, Bill.

This entry was posted on July 1, 2012 at 9:37 pm and is filed under Family, Travel with tags Nissan. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.