My Ride with J.D.

By -
'Twas yesterday evening. I 'twas leaving the work house.

As I approached my car, a sudden gust of wind shook the naked branches of a gnarled maple overlooking the vehicle. Its branches groaned in the late Autumn air - a sound that bodes ill for the weary traveler such as I was. I pulled my jacket tight around my body and unlocked the door.

Seat belt. Keys. Ignition. My mind ran through the familiar sequence. But something is strange today. As I turn the key, as I attempt to crank some life into this metal beast, nothing happens.

So it was. My car was adamant, decisive. "I will not start," it told me. "I was born in 1989; I'm too old. You'll have to call a tow truck today."


J.D. of J.D.'s Towing Service soon arrived. He didn't seem to recognize me, but I knew him:

   As a fog envelopes the scene, the Narrator takes us 
   back nearly one month.

   Chris: Hello. I need to call a towtruck. I've locked 
   the door of my car unaware that my keys dangle from 
   the ignition. They mock me.

   Operator: J.D. will be there within the hour.

   Chris mumbles an affirmation as the camera slowly 
   pulls back. Jump to a shot of Chris riding in the 
   passenger seat of the tow truck. It's dark outside.


J.D. and I had a lovely ride home. We were stuck for a short time behind a train in Trimble. Because the highway parallels the railroad track, we raced the train to the next crossing and beat it even though the train was, as J.D. put it, "hauling ass."

When I arrived home, as my old Ford rolled off the tow truck, I tried the ignition again. The car, now obedient after its free ride, promptly started.

"What's wrong with the car?" asked J.D.

"I don't know, it wouldn't start before."

"Did the engine turn over?"

"No."

"Bad fuel pump."

Perhaps you are right, J.D. In fact, I seem to trust your opinion more than you may realize.

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