42 Dreams of Arizona Bay

Lessons learned: 6

Don’t call people and brag that you’re at the beach in January. Even if it is windy and a bit chilly.

Don’t expect because your car is three years old, that it is expected to run.

Don’t expect that you’ll never need jumper cables or emergency flares or anything else a reasonable person might expect to have in an emergency kit just because you expect your car will just run.

People can kind and helpful when you least expect it. Especially if you are somewhat panicked and pitiful and two and a half hours away from home.

Service technicians can work very fast when they want to.

Don’t ask an old Wal-Mart greeter where to find restaurants. You’ll be there a long time. He won’t remember the name of the place, and you won’t want to eat there anyway.

I do a lot of seat-of-the-pants travelling. Little thought goes into where we’re going, what we want to be doing. We often just pick a spot we’ve heard of, map out the directions, and go.
No matter how early we plan on getting up, it never happens. We almost never leave town before 11.

This week’s little folly was called the trip to Pismo Beach. And we didn’t leave early. We had to get gas, snacks.
We didn’t plan on an overnight trip. Though common sense told us that if we left that late, we weren’t really going to have that many hours at the beach before needing to go home, because it gets dark around 5 p.m. now.

We get to Pismo Beach, and see that little slice of beauty: the sun shining through the clouds, onto a patch of ocean. We’d deserted the foggy Central Valley in favor of the beach.

We’re hungry. We find a cafe recommended to us, famous for its chowder. We have it in a bread bowl, and I won’t be hungry for some time.
The beach is right there. But it’s too cold to go wading. So we instead take a long walk on the pier, and of course shooting tons of photos.
Time is suspended. We don’t care how long we’re out here; darkness is far away.
We watch surfers brave the cold water. My hair whips around my face. I get an evil thought. Now that I have a cell phone, I can call my brother, my dad, and tell them I’m at the beach.
Neither one is particularly miffed at me, as I might be if someone told me they were at the beach while I was freezing my ass off. But we have good conversations. And I have no idea that the day is going to have a nasty turn.

We walk around, checking out some shops. All of them cater to tourists. Many sell shells or surf boards. We buy nothing. I’m a tourist without the tacky souvenirs.
I’m kind of disappointed that this is all the shopping there is. Maybe there’ll be more if we drive around. We also have a decision to make.
The fog might be worse down in the Valley. It’s supposed to rain. Do we really want to drive in that, in the dark. I really want to go home. I don’t want to pay for a hotel and we haven’t brought any clothes.

We get in the car.
The car won’t start, Heather says. She thinks the battery is dead.
I’m confident that it couldn’t be that. The car is three years old. How could the battery be dead?
But it won’t start. And it’s the simplest and ultimately cheapest explanation. I hope, in vain, that it’s the security system.
The car blinks on and off a number of times each time the ignition key is turned. I hope it’s a trouble code. I call my father, who undoubtedly thought he’d be finished with my car troubles once I a) bought a new car and b) moved to California, where there’s no chance that he’d be able to fix it.
It sounds like the battery. That’s what Heather said, but it takes my dad telling us to try some things before I believe him and my roommate.

So the hunt for a jump begins. It’s not too hard to get a jump. I don’t have jumper cables. Because my car is still fairly new, I reasoned in the past.
I accost three sets of people before finding a couple that volunteers their set of cables. In an unopened box.
It’s clear that out of four people, only one and a half know what they’re doing. Here’s a hint: I wasn’t one of them, and neither was the guy driving the other car.
But whatever we’re doing doesn’t work. I thank them for the help and then we sit back in the car and wonder what to do.

Saturn has a 800 service number, but I’m not under warranty. But at least they could help us find a tow truck? But Heather is more cool, collected, and takes the more direct approach. She calls information, gets the number for the nearest Saturn dealership, about 20 minutes away in Santa Maria, hoping that they can at least give us a number of a place bit closer that might be able to help.
It’s probably 4:55, or perilously close to closing time for most service stations. She gets Frank on the line, who confirms that, and says there’s someone out on a call who can come and give us a jump start.
It’s getting darker and colder. I’m missing photographing a fantastic sunset.
Nate, wearing a Saturn jacket, checks the battery and matter-of-factly announces that the battery is toast, and we’ll be lucky to get one jump out of it. Can you smell that smell, like eggs? You’ve got acid leaking all over. Your contacts are bad. Have you had trouble starting before?

I’m oblivious when it comes to cars, but I think I would notice if it’d had trouble starting. And I hadn’t noticed. He seems surprised.
But he’ll try to jump it. He’s a little pessmistic.
But he gets it started, revs the engine for a while, trying to get the battery to hold a charge.
Saturn doesn’t close till 6 p.m. on Friday; if we’re lucky, we can make the 20 minute drive to the dealership. Heather gets on the phone again, and then Nate tells the dealership that we’ll be on our way, that we should be there before closing. I stupidly ask if we can drive it back home. No. You need a battery now.

Nate tells us how to keep the car running. If you have to stop at a light, keep your foot on the brake, put the car in neutral and rev the engine. Don’t run the heat. The radio. If it wasn’t dark, I wouldn’t worry. But you’re going to need your lights.

He draws us a map, and points us to the freeway. I give him a tip, all the money I have, but it doesn’t seem like enough. I’m enormously grateful.

I call my dad again, tell him that we got a jump. Everything will be OK. I ask him if after we get a new battery, whether we should keep driving. No. In case something else is wrong, you should stay the night. OK. Well, I need to get off the phone now. Our exit is coming up.

We almost made it.
We were on the exit ramp, in three lanes of traffic, at 5:55, rush hour. Heather is trying to get it going. The way is clear.
And then it dies. For the final time.
People start honking. We don’t know what to do. We get out of the car, wave people on by. No hazards, nothing.
A guy in another lane yells: Turn your hazards on. Heather, in typical Heather fashion, says, I’m sorry man, I know it’s a pain, sorry to inconvenience you, but our battery is dead. We have no hazards. There’s some more redneck yelling and then he’s done.
A woman in another lane asks if we’re fine. What can I tell her? Go on, I say. We don’t know what we’re going to do. We have no lights, and now it’s pitch dark.
Heather calls Frank at Saturn again.
We’re dead in the middle of an intersection. We’re really close.
We’ll still be here, he says.
What do we do now, we ask each other.
Heather decides we’ll push it out of the way. It’s now pitch dark. She does the steering, while I push. Now people are smart enough to stay out of our way.
We’re in what’s probably a turning lane that ends. Heather’s steered the car up partly on the curb, so we’re not so much in the way.
What do we do now?
Call Saturn back. Tell them we’re really close. We can see the dealership’s sign from here.
It’d be stupid to get a tow. We’re probably within 400 yards of the dealership. If it were during the middle of the day, we’d probably be adventurous enough to push it.
But there’s no way to see us. We’d have to cross two lanes of traffic and turn left. There’s no way.
Heather calls the dealership back. It’s 5:58.
I know it’s time for you guys to go home, she says. But is there any way you can help us? We’re stuck right by the exit ramp. We can see your sign.
Frank, the guy at the dealer, says he’ll send the Saturn shuttle out for us.
Within two minutes, help’s here.
He vaults out of the truck, pops the hood and attaches a portable battery charger, which he leaves hooked up, with the hood up. I’ll drive, he tells us. You take the truck.
We jump in and he’s gone.
Heather wants to adjust the mirror, figure out how to drive this thing, but there’s no time.

We get to the dealer unscathed. The technician has already got the hood up, and I can hear him unattaching the battery.
Frank tells us to come with him to get the billing set up.
It’s now 6:04.
We’re effusive with thanks. Home is two and a half hours away. We didn’t know what we were going to do.
Another guy prints out a bill for $99, takes us to a clerk, and I pay. I don’t care how much it is. I feel very lucky that they would do this for me. Getting a jump from a tow truck would’ve cost me a lot, and I still wouldn’t have a battery. And probably still would’ve stalled somewhere else.
They’ve locked up behind us. Frank meets us on the way out, says a tip for the technician would be appreciated. Heather gives him all she has now, not much at all.
But we have gratitude.
It’s 6:07, and we’ve just seen the fastest service ever. Can’t blame them. They all wanted to go home.

We have decided, per my father’s advice, that we’ll stay in the area to make sure there’s nothing else wrong. We hunt for cheap hotels, since all this trip was supposed to cost was the price of gasoline.
And then we head to Wal-Mart to buy underwear and toiletries and find somewhere to eat. (My dad, at this point in the story, the next day, tells me we should’ve gone commando.)

The Wal-Mart greeter was funny, and should be a story by himself. This post has gone on too long. I’m surprised you made it this far. Extra points for one sitting. Anyway… don’t ask a Wal-Mart greeter where a good restaurant is. He’ll tell you where the nearest fast food joint is.

Maybe I’ll post some non-crisis pictures in the next entry. I should be writing a thank you letter to Saturn now.