Last night, Dylan left me to my own devices by going to a friend’s house to work on a school project. While I sat at home, waiting for his come-get-me call, I did what I love to do on Wednesday nights: I spooked myself out watching Court TV. One dead woman after another, their bodies all piling up in my mind, all of them victimized by some guy who’d caught them by themselves, mostly after dark. I sat there in the dark, watching long enough and taking in enough spookiness that I was afraid to walk to the bathroom to perform the most basic of functions.

But I had to watch something, had to keep myself busy while awaiting that call from Dylan. But it never came. So after I finished watching Haunting Evidence, this particular episode being about a woman who stopped her car on the side of the road and was found dead a few days later, I called my son and warned him that I was on my way to pick him up, no matter what. And he’d better be waiting outside when I got there. (While he probably thought I was asserting my maternal authority, the truth was that I was too scared to get out of my car to go to the door…)

I put on my shoes, found my keys, and as I grabbed the doorknob to head out the door, I shivered. I was afraid, afraid of going outside, running to my car, driving by myself. For protection, I decided to bring my not-so-secret-or-concealed weapon, my 12 pounds of take-no-prisoners, man-hating, family-jewel biting, snarling, growling, barking and slobbering Dachshund terror, Rocky. The Rockster. Good ol’ Rocky Top. Nothing will get me when he’s around, I told myself. And if it does, they won’t sneak up on me without warning…and if they do, they’ll be lucky to only lose one of their testicles before they get to me.

So off we went, the dog and me, into the night, in my car with very little gas.

Now as for my car, this is not the one I would’ve picked out for myself. In fact, I didn’t pick it out. But the truth is that sometimes we date people we shouldn’t, and sometimes we drive cars we don’t like, and sometimes the people who we date that we shouldn’t pick out the cars we don’t like and, in the end, we still have the car.

My car really hasn’t been bad to me, though—in fact, it has been very good. But it is what the car says about me that I resent: it SCREAMS single mom, 40-ish, practical. Yes, a gold Mazda 626 doesn’t exactly say the things about me that I wish it would, although the things I wish it said probably aren’t true anyway.

I drove straight to pick up my son, only checking the rear-view mirror and the door locks an obsessed number of times. I waited until Dylan’s hand was extended towards the door handle before I unlocked it, but the second he crawled in the car, I felt some relief that I was no longer alone. We headed straight for the gas station, a nearby truck stop with the lowest prices in town.

I got out, filled up, washed the windshield, and climbed back in. As predicted, Ms. Reliable cranked right up and I shifted into drive to go home—but my car went in reverse. (The kind and patient teenager behind me, waiting to fill up his bright red monster truck, laid on his horn as if, for some reason, I had fucking missed seeing his gargantuan vehicle. I thanked him for his…generosity.) I put the car in park, turned off the ignition and tried again. Back the car went. (And, again, Young Redneck in the Pickup treated me to the sound of his horn. Again, thanks.)

Fuck.

I didn’t know what to do. I tried the same routine again but the car wouldn’t crank….and when I took my foot off the brake, the car rolled. Sensing that this was a problem that I was not likely to be able to fix myself (since the extent of my automotive know-how is where to put the windshield washer fluid, a knowledge that so rarely helps in solving mechanical crises such as this one), I let the car roll all the way across the parking lot to a curb, where I ratcheted up the emergency brake until it was standing straight up in the air.

Always being the one who handles crises well, the one who buckles down into emergency-mode, pushing aside all emotion and thinking my way through everything, I, of course, burst into tears. And banged my head against the steering wheel until I was fairly convinced that I had permanently imprinted the Mazda insignia into my forehead. My son, holding the dog, both of them looking out the window, averting their eyes from my fabulous display of womanhood, sighed with that cocky teenage ennui and said, “Uh….I’m guessing we’re having car trouble?”

Trust me, I’ve never been a proponent of child abuse, but at that moment, I was willing to reconsider my position. But suddenly, before I gave onlookers reason to call the police, I came to my senses and realized exactly what I needed to do: I screamed. Not any word in particular, just a loud, long, shrill scream. And then I grabbed the steering wheel tightly, with both hands, and shook it—or rather, I tried to shake it, but instead, since for people with my strength (or lack thereof) the steering wheel is a fairly immovable object, I ended up only shaking myself, shaking my shoulders so violently that I am fairly convinced that I’ve injured myself in such a way that it would be a career-ending injury, were I a major league pitcher. But alas, I’m not an athlete of any kind (unless, of course, ice cream eating ever makes it to the ranks of a having a professional circuit and then I'll perhaps have a future); instead, I was just a 40 year old woman in a sensible car that wouldn’t run who was having a total meltdown in a rather public way.

Without thinking, I crawled out of my car, wounded, crying, and afraid. I’d do what I always do when I feel anxious—I’d pace. That I was in shorts at a truck stop was a bonus, I told myself, that maybe I could attract that special man with just the perfect blend of qualities that I was looking for: sexual predator/transmission expert. I knew, realistically, that if, indeed, I attracted a serial killer, my dog would scare him off, but hopefully not until after he’d finished repairing my car. What I hadn’t considered, however, was that my tear-stained face and my forgot-to-get-my-prescription-refilled demeanor was probably warding off even the most helpful of strangers.

I dug in my pocket and pulled out my cell phone. The first person I came to was Allie. It was already after 10:00 and since I knew she was having surgery the next morning, I knew I’d be waking her, but I had no choice. With very little coaxing, she agreed to come get me.

So I waited. And paced. And paced. And paced. And each time I walked past the car, my son’s eyes and my dog’s eyes looked the other way, just as if, by amazing coincidence, they were both instantly interested in something over there, just as my gaze fell upon them. It was as though I was on fire and nobody wanted to tell me.

So I looked down and started to scroll through my cell phone again, looking through the names and numbers, hopeful of finding someone who might be able to offer me some advice. So I scrolled. And I scrolled. And I scrolled. And then I came to Lisa’s number. Aah Lisa. Lisa, who is so wise. Lisa, who always gives the best advice. Lisa, who is married to David. And while I have only met David once, I know him through Lisa. He’s one of those cut-through-the-bullshit, never-bullshit-you guys. He’s smart, smart enough to have married Lisa. He’s got great taste in music. And…he’s a mechanic.

I called. Lisa answered and the “what the fuck” quality in her voice was barely discernable. It was 10:15. Oops. Before I could begin to apologize for calling so late, however, I started my alone-in-the-dark-and-afraid-and-my-car-won’t-start spin. The first tear hadn’t quite reached the top of my cheekbone before she said, “You need to talk to David,” and she handed him the phone.

Instantly, just by hearing his even-toned voice, the man who has earned a living by listening to mechanically-challenged yet violently hysterical women prattle on about their malfunctioning cars was able to calm me. Perhaps all that I needed was the sound of someone with naturally-occurring testosterone pumping through his body, but David was so much more. He listened, asked me questions, and diagnosed the problem with a much cheaper fix than the $1500 transmission that I had imagined. He told me where to take it, what to tell them, and to give them his number if they got confused. I hung up before I got his number, overjoyed and relieved.

Allie showed up just about then, dressed in some very comfy-looking pajamas and a pair of terribly cute sandals (that I suspect might disappear when she wasn’t looking, if only they were my size). I loaded my son, my dog, and my cd’s into her car and off we drove.

This morning, I did as David had suggested and he was right. Cheap repair. Easy repair. Barely worth a tear or a scream or even a wounded shoulder.

And yes, I know, you’re jealous of this great bunch of friends I have. And you should be. I don’t really know what to tell you about that, how I could’ve possibly accumulated such great folks. What I can say is this: if you’re in Birmingham and you need a good mechanic, David runs the Chevron on Crestwood. Give him a call sometime, although I’m fairly certain that he’d prefer you call before 10 pm.