It won’t start. I got in the car and it won’t start. Poof-poof-poof. That’s all this pile of junk on wheels has to say for itself when I put the key in the ignition. It’s eight o’clock in the morning. I’m surrounded by trees. And it won’t start. You might not understand the dimensions of the drama. I’ve run out of battery. And that would be great news if it was the phone. But it’s the car. I look up at the sky and it looks like rain. Sulfur.
I think that when the tow truck driver arrives, I’m going to ask him to leave. The car works perfectly since it’s broken down.
The girl on the roadside assistance phone has been lovely, quick and efficient. So much so that I’ve invited her to dinner tonight. Then I found out that it is a robot, that car insurance companies, before putting you on the phone with a real person, make you talk to several machines. I guess that’s how they dampen the first few expletives on every call. (READ MORE from Itxu Diaz: A Guide to Getting Drunk in Style)
The roadside assistance guy tells me that I have to wait 45 minutes for the tow truck to come. I look up and see the airport and the city, the roads, and urbanized life everywhere. I am five minutes away from the city, and I ask if they are sending me the tow truck from Africa. That I have to get to work and do it, if possible, before the next ice age. He hangs up on me with contempt. I call him back and hang up before he can say good morning this is Antonio. What does that idiot think he is doing? He who hangs up last hangs up best.
And it still won’t start. I tried again after opening and closing all the car doors, like we do with the printer when it says it has a paper jam and no paper at the same time. Then I tried what they do in Mel Gibson’s movies: push the car down the hill and try to start it with inertia. Whose was the great idea to have a brake pedal that doesn’t brake in cars that have been turned off? A hundred meters skidding after desperately pulling the handbrake, down the ravine, and I’m up to my ears in undergrowth. The other option was to let the car roll down and jump out the window. But whose idea was it that in cars without a battery you can’t roll down the windows? Manufacturers of the world: I love you. I want to see you guys under the wheels of my car.
A beer. The gas station bar. The McDonalds waitress’s smile issues a recommendation: if you drink don’t drive. I explain that, sober or not, I can’t drive. It’s not a question of wanting to. Beer, I insist, if you’d be so kind. And a slice of omelette. And an ice cream with ten scoops of chocolate and cream. I’m having a very bad day. And the guy with the tow truck, for God’s sake, he must be crossing the Sahara desert right now.
Planes keep landing and taking off over my head and I wonder if they also make them wait an hour if they run out of battery. How absurd. Airplanes don’t have electric cigarette lighters. So they don’t need a battery.
The third breakfast of the day has been so good for me that I think I’m going to go back to talk to the car. I’ve been too hard on it. So many years together and, really, anyone can run out of battery. It happens to me every night when I get into bed. I wonder why this stupid thing doesn’t sleep at night to get its energy back like everyone else. Who knows what it’s been doing this early in the morning to wake up today with no strength left. I hope it hasn’t taken to illegal racing without my permission, because I’d slap him so hard I’d turn him into a tricycle. (READ MORE: Exegesis of the Beach Creams and Bottle Tops Issue)
I take in the sun leaning against the trunk. I toss and turn around the car. I greedily read the damn car user’s guide. I glance at the horizon. There is no sign of the guy with the tow truck. I start visiting the surrounding properties for sale. It’s off the beaten track. It can’t be denied. It looks like I might be staying. It’s not so bad. The sun is shining, there are picnic tables and a park, birds are singing, there is cold beer, a smiling waitress like something out of a Fanta ad, and it is impossible for me to go to work. A real drama. I think that when the tow truck driver arrives, I’m going to ask him to leave. The car works perfectly since it’s broken down.
