Road trips, coming of age, and tacos

Another OV anecdote. Don't think I'll be running this one, though. Just something I had fun with.


Car trouble - more than booze, hunger or sheer stupidity - tends to put people in situations that they wouldn't otherwise dream of being in. Begging greasy men with fourth-grade education levels for a scrap of pity. Banging senselessly on metal casings with a wrench. Checking into shady motels, all alone, under the leering eyes of truckers and serial killers. Somehow, we take these risks into account each time we slide behind the wheel, and few think twice about it. And when disaster strikes, it's sometimes difficult to decide whether to recognize the hilarity of the situation or run like hell.
My trip started off well enough, with no indication of the unpleasantness I would soon find myself facing. I left Eugene fairly upbeat, actually, and anticipated the trip to my mom's house - a mere 17 hours away in Montana - to be an uneventful one. I'd undertaken such journeys before, and handled my share of disaster and bad decisions. Two days after receiving my driver's license, I'd driven my little sister, our dog and cat from Arizona to Montana, narrowly missing a golf-cart sized heifer who'd wandered onto the highway in the dark and taking a rock through my sunroof in the Rocky Mountains' monsoon season. A few months later, I visited a friend in California via car and on the way found a surprisingly nice hitchhiker - not to say I should have so willingly accepted his form of payment, at least not while driving.
This trip would be different, I assured myself on my way up the I5. First off, the only trip I was taking was physical, not mental, and I'd learned my lessons regarding pets, farm animals, and driving late at night. Nothing bad would happen to me now because I was in total control.
I'd forgotten about car trouble. The Jeep I'd owned for most of high school and into college had never given me problems, and I'm not a believer in taking a car to a mechanic just to see if he or she can divine some sort of information on whether it will break down next week.
So when the little orange "check engine" light came on in my dashboard, with its accompanying "ding" from the car's computer, I was a little taken aback. I'd been cruising effortlessly through the Columbia River gorge, gone past the enormous dams and was almost ready to cross the river into Washington. One thing about this area is that where there is a dam, there's activity, life, and almost no sign of poverty. When my light came on, it was in one of those spaces between dams, where there are somehow still towns but they appear deceased; forgotten and gathering dust beside the freeway with its blur of cars.
Nonetheless, I was determined to prove that I was a more responsible road-tripper than I've been in the past, and made every effort to take this subdued little warning from my vehicle seriously. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that the light came on just before an exit, and that there was at least a place to stay beyond that exit. And I do - it's just that it was four in the afternoon on a Sunday, there was no mechanic around who would be open before the morning, and I wasn't sure quite what to do with myself in those long hours. Undeterred, I pulled into the town's one motel and parked.
It was a hot afternoon in June, the dry wind shifting about in unusual ways and speeding up the flaking of the paint off the long, single-level building. The sun beat down mockingly from overhead - "What, quitting already?" I ignored it, slammed the broken Jeep's door, and walked toward the lobby.
On my way, I noticed a man standing by a white pickup in the shade, smoking a cigarette and attempting to make eye contact. His vaquero hat was pulled low down over his face, but his smile was friendly enough, so I muttered "Hi" as I walked past. He nodded.
The receptionist, who resembled a pile of cottage cheese, only more human-shaped, gave me a room and confirmed the mechanic situation. Nobody would be out until tomorrow. I left the air-conditioned stillness and walked back into the dusty courtyard, where the man still lurked outside the door.
"Car trouble?" he asked with his soft Spanish accent. How did he know?
"Yeah," I said. "Just gonna quit early."
"We could go get a drink in town." Wow, that was fast. I looked around, not even able to see a town from this freeway pitstop.
"That's ok," I said. "I need to find some food and get some rest." I forced my legs not to break into sprint as I retreated to my room.
When I thought he would be gone, I came out again. I really was hungry, and there was a gas station just down the road.