New York Part 2

I left the apartment crestfallen, took the train back to my hotel, grabbed my bags and headed to the airport. By the time I got to my car, I'd been traveling for four hours. I may as well have driven. As I was walking to my car, I anxiously worried about the fact that the gas light in the dash had been winking at me as I pulled into Central Parking the day before. Yet again, I had engaged in the Russian roulette of waiting until my car was belching hungrily for fuel before I refilled. So, I was considering this quandry, hoping that the old girl had enough in her to get me to the local gas station, when I approached my car and noticed that all the doors were unlocked. Thankfully, no one touched my gym bag of sweaty clothes or taken a tour of my trunk that is filled with coats, jackets and shoes, magazines from 2003, as well as the board games and sheets and cookbooks that I brought to Maine when I rented a cottage there last summer.

Triumphant in that discovery, I put my bags in the back seat climbed into the driver's seat and gleefully put my key in the ignition, eagerly anticipating the glass of wine I knew I was going to share with my friend Cindy in a few short minutes. Hmm. One problem-my battery was dead. I opened my cell phone. One bar; no signal. Even if I had a signal, I knew that my Triple A account had just expired, and I wasn't sure how they would approach this type of situation anyway. Would I have to pay their parking fee? Would they even come into the garage? Should I just say screw it, take a cab home and come back the next day? Maybe I should just call a spade a spade and curl up with the velux blanket in my trunk for the night. After saying "Fuck, shit, son of a bitch, God damn it to hell" a few hundred times, I took a deep breath, got out of the car, walked into the middle of the lot and got ready to show some leg. albeit it jean clad, unsexy black wool coat covered leg, but what the hell.

I heard footsteps and then spied an opportunity. "Do you have any jumper cables?" I asked eagerly.

"Uh, I don't think so, but let me check," the twentysomething goatee wearing young buck replied.

Then, I thought to myself, do I have jumper cables? It wouldn't surprise me if, buried beneath the tangled array of clothes, sheets, and cookbooks, a set of jumper cables might be found. It would be my MO to flag down twelve cars in search of a set only to discover that they were in my possession the entire time. Just as I was about to embark on this archealogical dig, a curious MTA shuttle rounded the bend and I ran to flag him down. He inspected me from the height of his 15 person Dodge van, looking slightly terrified at my desperate expression. "Do you have jumper cables?" I begged.

"No, but I'll send a tow-truck to give you a jump. Just pop the hood," he replied, matter of factly...like this happens every day.

Turns out that Central Parking has a set of people who I like to call God's gift to silly, scatter-brained folks such as myself, who are usually so behind schedule and rushing to make their flight that they leave the interior light on and forget to lock the door. Thank God, because neither I nor goatee boy possessed the cables in question.

My friend in the tow truck arrived, jump started my little Corolla, and left me with the parting words "Make sure you let her run for a while, so she doesn't stall out." One problem. If I let her run long enough to get juiced up, I might run out of gas and where would that leave me?

I decided to take a chance, let the car run for about 120 seconds, got out of the lot and chugged to the closest gas station. I pulled up to the pump, deciding to indulge in what was labeled as "Full Serve," which I later learned was an expired sign, turned off my car and called Cindy to tell her I'd be a few more minutes. Then I tried the car just to be safe. Dead Again. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a state trooper pull up to the gas station. I ran inside, probably looking like a raving lunatic.

"Can you jump start me?" I babbled.

He looked at me quizically.

"Do you have jumper cables? Are you even allowed to jump start a civilian's car?" I seriously uttered these words to a state trooper. In retrospect I'm lucky that he didn't subject me to a sobriety check or search my car for drugs. This is how crazy I was by this point.

"No, can't help you, but I can call a tow truck."

I looked at him blankly, not registering.

"You want me to call a tow truck?"

"Won't it take a while?" What the hell was I thinking? Did I have a choice?

"Yes or no?"

"Yes," I replied, made my way back to the car, opened the hood as I'd been instructed, looked through my purse for my gloves, discovered that in my adventures the night before, I'd lost one of them, sat back and l had a good giggle at my own expense.

Needless to say, by the time I arrived at Cindy's house an hour later, the glass of Pinot Noir with which she greeted me was nothing less than ambrosia.