From the Mind of Meegs

Our story begins on Thursday afternoon in Adel, Iowa, population: a lot of very helpful people and one very unhelpful cop.

Actually, that's not even true. Our story begins a few months ago, just outside of Chicago, Illinois, population: me, my mechanic, and my stupid car. Though my car has only about 90K miles on it, I am informed that the various problems that have beset it the last 25K miles or so will probably result in my engine giving out sooner rather than later. And though a goddamn car really should last longer than 90K miles, it probably doesn't make a ton of sense to pour a few thousand dollars into a car that really isn't worth that much. You know...don't spend more than 50% of a car's value on repairs, that sort of thing.

Now, we return to Adel, Iowa, on the road to a wedding in Omaha, Nebraska. A byproduct of the aforementioned car troubles is that my car burns through oil at an unusually fast rate--a problem which, for the record, I have long complained about but was not believed until just recently. Because I am a girl and thus, I clearly know nothing about cars. So my car begins to make the "I need oil" noise that I have become familiar with, though in normal everyday life I am able to manage this noise through regular monitoring and refilling. Also, this noise usually does not occur within 48 hours of my most recent oil change...more like 48 days (~halfway through the usual cycle of changing one's oil every 3 months).

But today, we are dealing with an obvious curveball. Quickly, we pull off to the side of the road and assess the situation. I purchase 4 quarts of oil and add 2 immediately. After allowing the car to sit for a bit, I attempt to drive the car once again. The "I need oil" noise becomes even louder, though at this point in time I suppose we should no longer call it the "I need oil" noise since the car now has oil. We pull off to the side of the road again, and I add 2 more quarts. At this point, it seems the best option is to head for the next gas station, 1 mile down the road. Perhaps they have a mechanic on duty.

No such luck. However, here we meet our first group of helpful people: one female store clerk and two male customers. All three refer to each other by name, probably because they represent about 60% of the town's population. They allow us to inspect a map of Iowa for free, listen to our predicament, and suggest the nearest car rental place, back several miles toward Des Moines. They even give us directions that don't require getting onto I-80. Now we have a plan: reach the car rental place, rent a car, locate mechanic (also back toward Des Moines) and have the now intermittently stalling car inspected, perhaps even leave car to be worked on while heading to Omaha.

We make it perhaps halfway to the car rental place before the car dies, probably forever. I ring my 24 hour roadside assistance. They have no idea where I am. I spell things for them. They still cannot find me. What landmarks am I near? Ummm, cornfields. Lots and lots of cornfields. This is what is colloquially referred to as the "middle of nowhere." Yet, on the other hand, I am on Route 6, something of a major thoroughfare in Iowa. What gives? But the roadside assistance person is helpful and agrees to hang on while I run about a half mile down the road to the nearest cross street ("street" being a generous term; dirt path is more like it, and as I approach, I realize I'm not even entirely certain it even has a name). As I run down the side of the road, I encounter yet more helpful people who have pulled over to ask after my situation. They are old, know the area fairly well, and are able to give me some more specifics. I am finally able to help the roadside assistance person pinpoint my location.

The old people plead with me to allow them to offer more help. "You don't even have any gloves!" she says, with grandmotherly alarm. But, upon being reassured that I have merely left my gloves in my car, and that my sister is on her phone arranging for the rental car service to pick us up, they proceed. Relating our location to the rental company proves equally problematic, though the representative is an Iowa native and their shop is located about 10 miles hence. Even to those who reside in the middle of nowhere, we are in the middle of nowhere.

The tow will be there in an hour. I must be present. Problem: the rental car company representative will be here in a half an hour. It is not safe to assume we will be returned with our rented car in time for the tow. So we call back. Can the rental car representative arrive in an hour, simultaneous with the tow? No, they cannot. They close at 6 PM. Doing our city folk best to understand this concept, my sister and I agree that we will simply have to go whenever they get there. The tow company will, in all likelihood, not arrive on time and if they do they will just have to wait. But I cannot tell them this because, while waiting on hold for the tow company's contact information, my cell phone dies.

Along this time, a cop arrives. He does not seem particularly alarmed to find two young females stranded amongst corn, underneath a rapidly darkening sky. He offers to call a tow truck. I offer that I have already arranged for a tow. OK, then. His work here is done. "Good luck, ladies." And before we can protest, he is off to address the crime that surely must run rampant in this small town of about 4 people. He leaves and we sit in our now cold car, hoping that the tow and the rental arrive in the promised time frame, and that they can locate us before my sister's drained cell phone battery dies too. Otherwise, we are screwed.

to be continued...