May 27, 2003
I have no idea what it is with me and cars. As a general rule, they hate me. They pick the most awful of situations to crap out on me.
The latest vehicle to act demonic is my mom's 1994 Grand Marquis, and the tale I am about to tell is 100 percent true -- no embellishments, no making things up. This isn't The New York Times, after all.
Anyway, I spent a lovely extended Memorial Day weekend in the Truckee Meadows. I was driving my Mom's car, a 1994 Mercury Grand Marquis. Normally, this car and I get along well, even if it is the size of a Sherman tank, only harder to park.
On Friday, I had lunch with my 92-year-old grandmother, Effie, at Baldini's Turf Club Restaurant. It was a wonderful meal. After that, I had several errands to run: I needed to make a stop at Barnes and Noble, and then I was going to take the car to get washed and to get gas.
I headed down Rock Boulevard to Longley Lane, and then to McCarran Boulevard. All was well and good. The car was running well; the gas gauge showed I had 3/8 of a tank of gas.
I got in the left turn lane on McCarran at the intersection of Virginia Street -- the busiest damn intersection in the valley. The light was green when I got in the lane, but turned yellow as I approached. I decided to do the right thing and stop rather than run the yellow/red light, like seemingly everyone else on the planet does these days. This left me as the first car in the lane at the light.
Then, all hell started breaking loose.
The car started shaking, first jittering a bit, then progressing into a full-fledged quake. I had no idea what was going on. The car didn't die; it just shook as all the folks in the other lanes took their respective turns heading through the intersection. It was still shaking violently as my light turned green, and -- with no other choices -- I hit the gas.
I got about six feet into the intersection -- when the car died.
Holy crap!
I restarted the car, only to have it die right away, a cycle that repeated several times. Meanwhile, the light turned yellow, and then red.
I managed to get the car started, puttering and shaking, as the light turned green for the traffic on McCarran. Despite the fact that I was IN THE MIDDLE OF THE INTERSECTION, clearly having mechanical issues, traffic started coming right at me.
It was amazing. I am sitting in my car, screaming at oncoming traffic to STOP like a maniac, yet people kept zooming by. When there was a bit of a break, I gassed it, causing the car to lurch forward. I started hurling my body forward, as if to give my car an extra boost (people driving by probably thought I was having some sort of seizure). By the grace of God, I made it through the intersection and drifted into the Barnes & Noble parking lot, where I parked, took a big breath and thanked the Lord that I lived and managed to refrain from soiling my shorts.
After I regained the ability to speak English again, I called AAA. Based on the way the car was acting, I suspected the car may have been out of gas, and that the gauge showing 3/8 of a tank was near-tragically incorrect. The operator said roadside assistance would be out in 90 minutes or less.
Two hours later, assistance arrived. He put 2 1/2 gallons in, started the car up, and it purred like a kitten. I paid him for the gas and drove, CAREFULLY, to the nearest gas station.
All totaled, I only put 12 1/2 gallons in -- well below the gas tank's size. In other words, the car was apparently NOT out of gas.
The happy ending here is that I drove the car 140 more miles over the weekend (although I avoided major intersections) without any further incidents.
But that begs the question: WHY DID THE CAR DO THIS? Why did it choose to do this literally in the middle of Sparks-Reno's busiest intersection? Why didn't the light turn yellow just a second sooner, allowing me to make it through the intersection without incident? And if the problem was somehow gas-related, how freaking ironic is it that it happened when I was ON MY WAY TO THE GAS STATION?!?
I don't know the answer to this question. All I know is the evidence is starting to mount: Cars have it out for me.
From now on, whenever possible, I am taking the train.
Jimmy Boegle is a fifth-generation Nevadan in exile in Arizona who is an advocate of light rail systems. His column appears here Tuesdays, and he can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@stanfordalumni.org.