Anyways, one of my favorite stories (it looks long, but it’s a pretty quick read. I think.):

It happened in the spring of 2008. April and I lived together in Packwood, WA. (I would never recommend that two mentally unstable twenty-something best friends live and work together in high-stress atmospheres, by the way. We look back now and laugh, but there were times when we might have killed each other.) We were both restless from small town life. We needed to “get out of Dodge” and spend a night “painting the town red.” Just so long as that town wasn’t Packwood, since we were the highly respected “AmeriCorps Girls.”

Naturally, to fulfill our desire for Big City Life, we bypassed the drive to Seattle, vetoed heading to Vancouver, B.C., and balked the trek to Tacoma. Instead, we of course went to Yakima (for those of you unfamiliar with Yakima, it’s a fruit town. No, not fruity. Just fruit. Look it up).

So we hopped in my Bright-Red-Cop-Magnet-Chevy-Beretta-Z26-Almost-Sports-Car and drove (sped) the hour and fifteen minutes (forty-five when you go more than 80 mph) over the mountains and into Yakima, giggling with reckless abandon, dressed in our best Springtime duds and flip-flops (this is important later). Our first stop was the Red Lobster for an early dinner. We needed Garlic Cheese Biscuits, and we needed them NOW. After eating at the restaurant, we went back out to my car to discuss where our next stop would be. We chose Target (that’s tar-jzey).

So we got in the car, I stuck the key in the ignition, and turned it. Half-turn, three quarter turn, there it was–*click.* Look at April. We share that “you’ve got to be kidding me” glance. Try the ignition again. *click* This can’t be happening. Bang head against steering wheel. One more time, just for good measure. *rrooooo…click* Get out of car. Kick tire. Try not to scream (it is, after all, the parking lot of a restaurant).

I compose myself (sort of) and dig out my wallet to call Triple A (for the third time in six months–other long stories). We go through the now-routine exchange, and I tell them where we are and where we’re going. I was immediately told the wait would be about three hours if we were going to get a truck to take us all the way back to Packwood. Three hours? Great.

So we decide to walk to Tarjzey. In the blistering Eastern Washington sun. About a third of the way there, we were both stripped down to our tank tops (something I was not entirely comfortable with, but that’s yet another story). By halfway there, I was limping. By two thirds of the way, our pace had been cut in half due to dehydration and my inability to walk properly. By three quarters of the way, I was walking barefoot down the streets of town. Ah, the looks you get when you exercise deviance. When we finally arrived at Tarjzey, I broke down and cried. Okay, so I didn’t cry. But I did sit on the bench in the entryway of the store and assess the damage to my feet. I had blisters that covered the entirety of the balls of each foot. It was pretty gross. Those flip-flops were almost retired right then and there (they still sit on the rack of shame in my closet).

In the store, I bought bandaging materials and very soft, very therapeutic sandals. We also picked up a few necessities that were extremely expensive in an out-of-the-way place like Packwood. Nowhere near what we would’ve gotten if we could drive, but hey, you do what you can. I washed and bandaged my poor feet in the women’s restroom, which is a huge deal for a germaphobe (and got me more really awesome looks). Then we started to walk back to my car. I think I did finally break down and cry at one point. Shudder.

Anyways, by the time we arrived back at the Red Lobster parking lot, we had about fifteen to twenty minutes before the Fantastic Savior Tow Truck would arrive to take us all the way over the mountains and back to the Dreaded Small Town. I looked at my car and sniffed a little (my feet still hurt). Then the strangest thing happened…an odd sensation came over me.

I defiantly told April I was going to try the car one more time. I stuck the key in the ignition, turned it three quarters, heard a strange sound and left it there for twenty seconds. Then I took a deep breath, held it, turned the key, and…*click* Seriously?

Okay, one more time. I turned the key, and… *vroooom* Car roars to life! What the heck?! But it lives! CRAP, THE TOW TRUCK!!!

Rush to call Triple A and cancel the tow. I think he actually got the call as he drove by. I felt a little bad for the guy. But at least he didn’t have to drive two hours out of his way…

It took me three weeks to get my car fixed. Turns out there was something wrong with the fuel injection (the strange sound I heard right before turning the key all the way). The guy who repaired my car replaced the part (for a wonderful $360), and broke my gas gauge. To this day, I still have no clue how full my tank is. At least it starts. Usually.

I can just see the text the driver would send the girl in the back seat.

“Look 3:00! Ugly Naked Dude! LOLOL”

And sometime, ask me about the time I was caught in the middle of the Mississippi River on an air mattress with no way to get back to the edge, while a barge was blowing its fog horn at me. Good times.

Thanks for your comment!

Thanks for your comment!

Too bad it is driving horror stories. How about a story where you rent a pontoon boat to ride down the river, get caught up in a sandbar, push it off, and then it goes off without you? Yep. Bob and I had to swim the river to catch up with our rented boat. Good times!