Keeping with the trend of this month, I had company in town -- Miss Whitney, my tourism partner in crime. That is... she was my partner in crime until she decided to abandon the desert, and me, and move to the pacific northwest where it rains all the time and the sun never shines. Whatever. We were hustling to get out the door when I got a message. My friends -- ones we were supposed to ride with that evening -- had just gotten in a car accident. We rushed to the scene to see what help we would be able to offer. They were all okay mostly, but needed to head to the ER for a few aches and pains. As it turned out, the best part of their evening was the Vicodin they walked away with. Little did I know that my night... was just getting started.
We left the hospital feeling frazzled and cautious, but made our way towards Scottsdale. I changed lanes on the interstate, looking carefully around me before merging. Speed limit was being abided by (side note: that never happens). Full attention was being paid to the road. Suddenly, the gauge for my engine temperature spiked to red. That's odd. It wasn't like that a second ago. I should be fine... No...it's glowing red. And a psycho red. Not burgundy or a friendly barn-door red. I'll just take this exit riiiight here. I can pull over to check out the scene from there.
I could see the glowing oasis of a gas station on the horizon when my car started to grumble and within seconds, steam began to creep from under my hood. Reflex set in and I floored the engine towards the gas station. I threw the car into park, shut off the engine and leapt from the vehicle, nearly tripping over my 5 inch wedges in order to get to the hood as quickly as possible. Once I made it, I froze. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Do I open the hood? What if the steam gives me third degree burns? Or worse, what if the car blows up??
I placed one pinky finger on the open lever and settled into a pre-sprint position like an Olympian ready for the 400-meter dash. By the time the hood was open and I'd hurled myself a safe distance away, I was able to catch a glimpse of steam releasing itself into the hot Phoenix night. We stood there staring up, and then at the engine for a good five to 10 minutes. We were completely stupefied. We were clueless. We were waiting for a random good samaritan to offer us help.
When that didn't come, I turned to Google. "What to do when car overheats." The answers seemed straight forward enough...
"Try turning your heat on full blast."
"Turn your air conditioner on full blast."
"When the engine is cool, add water."
"Check the coolant level in your radiator."
But... where do I add this water? Where might I find my radiator? My mind was racing and it was only getting later and somehow hotter. A group of dark shadows approached.
"Need a ride?" The figure came into the light and a homeless woman in a shopping cart came into view. "Seriously..." cackle, spit, cackle... "You need a ride!? At least my shit works! HA!" The wheels on her cart zigged along the cracked sidewalk as she flaunted her toothless smile and working vehicle past us. Touché, you cackling homeless woman. Your shopping cart unquestionably beats out my broken-down BMW.
A instant later, two creepy men in a lowrider pulled up alongside the mayhem. "Te ayuda?" Inner dialogue with myself told me to smile and say "no thank you." But the more realistic, "it's nearly midnight and we have no other way to get home" side of me relented.
"Yes sir, we need any help you can give us," I said with a trusting smile.
The man turned out to be a Mexican angel. He was a mechanic himself, and while he didn't speak any English (and for whatever reason, my panicked stage caused me to forget any and all Spanish), the universal language of automobile maintenance prevailed. He topped me off with water, and upon seeing it all flow directly out from under my car, he gestured for me to drive as quickly home as possible. There was a leak, but he thought what he'd added would last me. He continued to pour water into the hood as we got in the car. He slammed the hood and we swerved out, waving goodbye to our savior.
The next few minutes can be regarded as some of the most anxiety-wridden, crack-head resembling moments of my young life. Barreling through a rough neighborhood at half past midnight, the sound my car was expending into the desert night was causing me to become short of breath. I was shaking. I was dripping in sweat. The a/c still wasn't working. The screeching noise intensified, and I was sure we were going to catch on fire. Our race to safety placed us two blocks from the house and at this point, I was coasting in neutral. I could almost see the stoplight on my street when steam began to funnel out of hood from all sides, and my car decided to fire off several loud noises and completely shut off. We were in the middle of an intersection. Absolutely certain we were about to blow up, I think I blacked out, screamed for Whitney to "get out of THIS CAR!" and sprinted across moving traffic for cover at the nearby Circle K.
Thirty seconds later, no such explosion occurred. I called the tow truck, and 30 minutes later, we were riding shot gun in his rig on the way back to my house.
It wasn't until this afternoon that I had my poor car towed to my mechanic. The verdict is still out whether or not I completely fried the engine. I arranged for a rental car, and the place offered me a cop car, which I naturally gleefully accepted and am now happily cruising the streets of Phoenix in [gangster] [or geezer] style.
The way I see it, the moral of the story could be a few things. The universe does not want me to attend any Scottsdale clubs; Sometimes, you don't have control over situations and you have to learn not to lost your shit and completely panic (this one, unlikely); Black cars sometimes overheat when it's over 110 outside; When in doubt, the answer is always the Crown Victoria (very likely).
#OverallWin
