Editorial
Front Page - Friday, March 5, 2010
Are We There Yet?
Déjà vu
Jay Edwards
I think there must be a higher power that doesn’t want me to drink.
I have proof of this; two proofs in fact. The first happened sometime in 1978. I was with my girlfriend (now wife) Kathy, and two friends, Owen and David. We were at that liquor store on Cantrell across the street from Kraftco. We had bought some beer and I was waiting to pull back out onto the busy road and head west.
Cars were coming around the corner fast. I saw an opening and put the gas pedal to the floor of my Dad’s 1975 black Grand Prix, a fast car that I had won a race in that summer, in front of Murray Park, before any of those damn big bridges were around.
Anyway, halfway out of the parking lot we heard a loud, unpleasant crunching, grinding sound below. “That didn’t sound good,” Owen said, as I drove away.
Soon a car pulled up to my right and the guys in it were yelling at us. Our windows were up and I was about to roll them down when Owen said, “He’s calling us a jack-ass!” (Which he wasn’t but probably should have been.)
So the guys in my car, me included, responded, as adolescent males will when being threatened, by screaming obscenities back at them. They just shook their heads and drove away.
Next we came to Mississippi and stopped at the red light. A car pulled up next to us there and I saw the driver waving, trying to get my attention. “What’s the deal tonight?” I wondered.
We rolled down the window.
“You’re leaking gas!” he yelled. (He should have called us jackasses; it would have been more appropriate.)
At last our quick minds realized that the horrible sound we had heard when pulling out of the liquor store was concrete against metal, specifically a metal gas tank. The concrete won. Those first guys we’d seen had actually been good Samaritans who were trying to save us from a fiery explosion. Ah youth.
I drove faster, trying to get back to my house in North Little Rock, before the gas ran out. Seemed smart at the time. Dave screamed from the back seat that he was sitting above the tank and would surely die. Owen told everyone not to throw out a cigarette; while I imagined all the different ways my dad was going to kill me. Kathy just sat silently in the seat next to me, likely wondering if this was really her best option.
We made it back to my house on Kent Road without exploding. My father didn’t murder me, though I still believe he wanted to, and would have many times during my life, had it not been for mom’s interventions. The welding of the tank cost me $75.00.
I had learned a good lesson that night, one that would serve me well for 32 years, that is until a week ago Thursday night. I was again on Cantrell Road, and again leaving another liquor store. After buying some wine I was about to pull out on to Cantrell, with plans to stop at Popeye’s for some chicken and mashed potatoes. Things were good. Wine and chicken lay ahead and tomorrow was Friday.
I looked to my left and saw the cars of rush hour sitting impatiently at the stoplight. Their light turned green but I had an opening and slammed the shift of my poor old Caddy (another big black car with a powerful V-8) into drive and punched the gas. There was plenty of room between the cars and me but they were closing fast. The hood of my car lurched onto the highway.
Then, a split second later, I heard that distantly familiar and sickening sound of cement killing steel. Ah-oh.
The Caddy didn’t even make it completely into the lane of traffic before shutting down. I tried to start it again and again, but no go. Behind me, the homebound working class cursed my existence as they came to a sudden stop.
Cars pulled around me into the left lane where they could pass and one SUV angrily honked his horn, as if I had a choice in the matter. A woman was knocking on my passenger window. “You’re leaking gas!” she yelled.
“I know, I know. I’m a jackass,” I said.
More Samaritans came and pushed me back to the parking lot, where I waited 45 minutes for AAA. The tow truck driver took my wounded Caddy to Jett’s on Markham. I called Kathy to come get me. She is still laughing about it.
The next day Jett’s fixed my ripped fuel filter for $60, which was $15 cheaper than the incident 32 years ago.
At least I got that going for me.
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