The (Other) End of the Internet

When I ended part one of this story, Wendel the Tow Truck Guy had just dropped me at a motel that was apparently experiencing an identity crisis. When I climbed down out of his truck - no easy trick, since the floorboard was even with my hip as I stood next to the truck - and staggered into the Benton Inn (or Ramada, or whatever), I must have still been all red, because the girl behind the counter looked up from behind her tattoos and her obvious need for acne cream and asked if I’d been out in the heat all day.

I nodded politely and told her I needed a room for the night. I was asked to present my driver’s license (like I was going to be driving the room around??) and paid for it with my Visa card. When she returned them I put both of those items back in my billfold.

I went to my assigned room and immediately noticed that A) those heavy drapes made the room DARK, even at 5 pm and B) the light switch by the door did nothing. I looked around and found that the light next to the bed, the television, and the air conditioner all worked, so I was good with that. Looking in the mirror, I noticed that I was, in fact, red as a tomato, so I soaked a small towel in cold water and wore it around my shoulders for about 15 minutes.

After cooling off, I went over to the restaurant that shared the building with the motel. I haven’t been to Denny’s in over a decade and was pleasantly surprised at the changes to their menu since the last time I was there. I got some beef nachos and went back to my room. As soon as I got there, the phone rang. It was the front desk, “I still have your Visa card.”

WTF? I put that back in my billfold!

Nope. It was waiting patiently for me at the front desk, in the little tattooed girl’s grip.

I passed the night watching movies on cable and listening to the freaks drag racing outside my door. My wife called in the late morning to inform me that Wendel the Tow Truck Guy’s boss had called about the car. It was going to cost $65 for the tow charge, $65 for the mechanic coming in to look at it (not WORK on it, just LOOK) on Saturday, and anywhere from $1,000 to $1,500 to replace a broken timing gear.

Mom didn’t pay that much when she bought the darn thing!

She also told me that her sister was renting a car to come and get me. Once I got home we were going to keep the rental car for a day or two until we could come up with a game plan.

I checked out of the motel at 11:00 and was going to get something to eat then sit and drink coffee for the three hours it would take her to get there.

Right.

That waiter decided that I was allowed cups of coffee and then I didn’t exist any more. I sat there for 30 minutes and he didn’t even look in my direction, so I got pissed off and decided that his tip didn’t exist. Take that, you mamma’s boy! The word “Tip” actually means, “To Insure Promptness”. This “guy” (using the term generously) was NOT prompt.

I got home, ate dinner, watched a couple episodes of Sliders and went to bed. This morning, Mom called her mechanic she’s been using for 20 ears or so. He told her that he talked with a bunch of mechanic-types he knows and none of them have ever heard of the timing gear on a 1988 Pontiac 6000 breaking teeth off. He also said he could probably fix it for WAY under the $1,500 she was quoted. On top of that, he’ll probably be able to work out a payment plan that won’t have everyone in the family in hock for the next 200 years. He was given instructions to go get the car and tow it the 170 miles back here.

I turned the rental car back to the car lot, then turned around and rented it again, this time in my own name, for a week.

Hopefully, in that time we can have a little good news for a change.