Cavaliers and Clutches

When I was young(er) and stupid (four years ago), I dated a West Point schmuck. He was home in Alabama for the summer, so what did my dumb ass decide to do? Get in my 1990 Cavalier and drive all the way there from Chapel Hill all by myself.

Everything was going great. I entertained myself in various ways (some of which are too vulgar to get into). I didn't have a CD player in my car, but I had two mix tapes that I played over and over again. I think I listened to "Dancing Queen" 16 times.

By the time I got close to the Alabama state line, my MapBlast directions were getting shitty (read: WRONG) and it was getting dark...and my phone battery was dying.

Guess what happened.

My clutch disconnects from the transmission (I forget the technical blah blah blah the mechanic used) and I get stranded on the side of the road for several hours. It came loose in an intersection: fortunately I was able to make it onto a shoulder.

I should mention that it was in one of those areas that highway patrol doesn't monitor and I hadn't observed what mile marker I was at. All I knew what which highway it was, and approximately how long I'd been on it. I also observed lots of pick-up trucks with Confederate Flag bumper stickers and that didn't sit too well in the pit of my stomach.

First, I tried calling my ex but he had gone to his kid sister's graduation and had taken the car. I left a message on their home answering machine saying something to the effect of "I'm lost and I don't know where the FUCK I am." His mother found that very amusing. Obviously, "Fuck" is not a word they use with as much grace and elegance as I do. Ex's father got the message at some point and got on the lawn mower and rode it down to the school to tell him.

Meanwhile, my phone battery had just enough juice in it to make one more short call, so I dialed 911. Supposedly they dispatched someone out there, but they never showed up (hours later). One gent pulled over to wait with me because he was concerned I'd get kidnapped, but he left when a sheriff pulled up.

The sheriff, and I shall never forget this, tells me that "I'm on my way home and this isn't in my jurisdiction" and keeps moving. He doesn't call the dispatcher to find out where the other car was supposed to be. He just keeps moving. Bastard.

So, I'm sitting there alternating between hiding on the floor so that no ax-murderers steal me away and standing outside where people could see me.

Eventually, Ex shows up (the Eclipse-driving bastard), tries to move my car (because apparently I'm an idiot and wouldn't know it if my car broke down), and we end up leaving the car there.

I had to take the bus back to Chapel Hill and try to come up with cash to get my car fixed. It cost me $600 to get fixed with a used part and I ended up having to scrap the car altogether the next year.

Fuckin' good times.