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My foot mashed the brake, but the car barreled on. Automatically, I slammed the pedal. Nothing. By then, I was into a wide turn sweeping right onto a connecting road that led to Route 1.
The weird thing about post-traumatic stress is that it affects you in the oddest ways, at the least expected times. Instead of panicking, my instincts kicked in, and a surreal calm settled over me.
To make the turn, I wrested the wheel to the right. The car’s left side skidded onto the shoulder, but the right side tires gripped the pavement. I managed to reach the connecting road, and my car tore on in the right lane. I couldn’t imagine making it to Route 1 without plowing into a phone pole or another vehicle.
I sideswiped the tires against the curb, which did little more than ruin good tires. Slowly, I pulled the handbrake. The car slowed a bit, so I pulled harder. The car shuddered to a halt curbside a few feet short of the intersection.
Exhaling a breath, I stared through the windshield. After a minute, I hit my four-way flashers and called AAA.
???
The AAA tow truck took nearly an hour to arrive. But that gave me plenty of time to figure out my next move. Sure, my car was old, but I kept up regular maintenance. Perhaps the brake line had sprung a leak when I hit a pothole or accidentally ran over something.
Or had the brake been monkeyed with. Who would do it? Who knew I’d be at the university that day? I hadn’t told Terry my exact plans. Maybe someone who knew him found out. Surely, it wasn’t the guys he’d expected to greet with his gun in hand. I called Two-Bit Terry and got his voice mail.
I mulled over these questions as I rode with the tow truck driver, who seemed hell-bent on engaging me in conversation.
“Sorry I took so long,” he said. The driver wore washed-out denim overalls (bib and all) over a red-and-white checkered shirt. Looked like he should’ve been driving a farm tractor.
“No problem.”
“Leastwise, it’s not raining or snowing, huh?”
“Right. Snow in September would be weird.”
The driver laughed, taking my comment as an invitation to keep talking. Someday, I’ll learn to keep my mouth shut.
“Well, with that global warming stuff going on, you never know what the weather will be, right?” he said.
“Yeah.” Full stop.
He chuckled and shook his head. “That’s quite a car you have there. Fiesta Mark I, right? Cute little things.”
“It runs.”
“Haven’t seen a Mark I in ages,” he continued. “German-built, but the ones sold here had more kick than the overseas models.”
I smiled, despite myself. “Really?”
“I love working on cars. ’Specially old ones.” His gaze through the windshield turned wistful. “Done my share of engine and body restoration. You know, people don’t hold onto things like they used to. Everyone’s chasing what’s shiny and new.” He glanced my way. “Name’s Clyde Beavers. You ever need work done on your car, I’m a mechanic on the side.”
“That’s nice.”
“I don’t charge an arm and a leg, neither. Too many folks in this line look to gouge customers. Especially when they’re—no offense, miss—women.”
I turned to look him over. Seemed like a decent guy. “Got a card?”
“Sure thing. The wife just ran a load off for me. Got ’em right here.” He reached into a pocket in the bib of his overalls and handed me a white card with a name and contact information printed on it. He lived not far from me.
“Thanks,” I said, tucking the card into my bag. “And I’m Erica,” I added, passing him one of mine.
When we arrived at the shop, I thanked him once more and gave him a $10 tip before exiting the tow truck. Good thing I hadn’t stopped at the Overpriced Cafe. In the meantime, a bag of overly-salty chips from a vending machine would have to be my lunch while I waited for the vehicular verdict.
I returned to pondering my situation as the mechanic examined my car. Two other customers sat with me in the waiting room. A small TV set perched above us blared an annoying talk show. If I had to spend hours listening to mindless chatter on that TV, I’d probably smash it with my chair.
A thin young man wearing a light blue shirt and dark blue slacks, identified as “Roy” on an oval embroidered name tag, emerged from the shop area, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “Ms. Jensen?” His eyes scanned the group.
“Here.” I raised my hand like an elementary school student.
