At a Crossroad, Somewhere in S. Carolina (Saturday Scribbles)

We are at a gas station somewhere—seems more like nowhere—in South Carolina. It’s late November and f-ing cold outside—something their chamber of commerce doesn’t talk about. We are on a journey, mode of travel: our truck camper—named Artemis, after the Greek goddess of hunting, wilderness, and wild animals. (Perhaps we hyperbolize our camper’s mission, as well as suggest our knack as co-captains of the rig, but it gives us the pluck we require to travel the countryside in a 2003 truck with a heavy load on her back.)

Speaking of our on-the-road prowess, we’ve just inadvertently pumped regular gas into our diesel-engine truck. To turn the motor on would ruin the engine, immediately. We can’t move an inch until every drop of liquid has been drained from the tank.

The voice from our roadside service plan says they’ll have to have it taken to a dealership that’s fifty-five minutes away—which, given the late hour, is closed for the day. We are assured by the voice that we can sleep in their lot, overnight, in the camper. In the morning, they will drain the tank and we’ll be on our way. (Well, I console myself, we’ve parked for the night in worse places.)

“Oooh Nooo,” the tow truck driver in his southern-accented voice groans into our cell after my wife describes the disaster our rig has endured. Apparently our roadside service hasn’t accurately conveyed our situation to him. He’s in route to rescue us.

“How high?” The driver’s long “i” stretches on as he heads toward our calamity. His prolonged vowel doesn’t stop until his breath runs out. His tone reveals his disbelief, and he can’t help repeating, “How high, did you say?”

My wife had already told him, but he doubts her. He apparently needs a visual, so she says, “With our camper on the back,” my wife explains in a measured tone, “it’s as high as the semis on the road.”

The fact is, by the time you put a camper—a mini home that you can standup in, shower, cook a meal, the works—on the bed of a Silverado truck, you are one of the tall boys out there on the highway. We’re thinking that he’s been thinking that we have one of those trucks with a bubble-like lid where you spend the night by tossing in a sleeping bag and slide in horizontally—and when nature calls, pee in the woods.

“Oooh, Nooo.” He repeats. (I shutter, imagining myself being rolled in on a gurney into an emergency room. The doc comes up to my barely-hanging on to life body, hovers over me and says, “Ooooh Nooo!” Okay, I realize this isn’t a medical emergency, but we’re distressed and need a tone of confidence.)

“All, I have is a flatbed truck to put your vehicle on.”

“You can’t do that, “ my wife says. “If you put our rig up on your flatbed, it will be even higher than the semis.” (I’m imagining the crash scene as our truck proudly sits atop the flatbed, and then slams into the first encountered overpass. I shutter again.)

“I cain’t…” He drones, once again. (Someone needs to teach this guy comforting skills. Didn’t his mother read him, “The Little Engine that Could?”) I can almost hear him putting his foot on his brakes and turning around. “I cain’t do that…” “But, I suppose,” his voice finally breaks through the long silence. “I can haul her along behind.”

At least he’s got the correct pronoun for Artie (short for Artemis).

At this point, I’m wondering how anyone in the South gets things done in a timely fashion, drawing out their vowels. Furthermore, we’re not dressed for a southern freeze, having to stand outside in order to get cell phone service.

“No,” my wife says, “You can’t tow our truck camper; it’s a 4 wheel drive vehicle. And it’s top heavy” (I’m imagining our rig connected on a slant to the back of his flatbed truck—Artie dragging behind, scraping the road, sparks flying…She’s screaming.)

“How high is she?” He drones again, like he has indigestion. This guy has a visualization disability.

By this time, we realize the only answer is to lift the camper off the truck—which means leaving it at the gas pump and hoisting the Silverado onto the flatbed. But the problem with that solution is, no one will be able to use that pump and we’re thinking the gas station owner will not be pleased. But what else can we do?

Until…

A female employee at the Subway restaurant comes out and tells us about two locals who, she’s noticed, have just pulled into the gas station across the street. She explains that they do odd jobs—when they can find them—and thinks they might be able to help us out. She goes on to warn us that they look “scruffy and don’t smell too good, but they’re harmless.”

The woman says that they know how to siphon gas. I glance over at them getting out of their aged truck, Ford 150, dents, rust and loose fittings. I’m thinking, I bet they do possess that skill, and my flash evaluation of them adds, and probably others.

Elaine and are aware that the world sees us as two women traveling, alone–in other words, without men. Some even notice we’re lesbians…that gives us what I consider to be a healthy paranoia. I know we’re both thinking the same thing: Is this woman part of a scheme for travelers in trouble? Are these guys really ‘harmless’?

Maybe.

Do we leave the camper at the pump or do we call off the tow truck guy and trust these people?

Sometimes you have to let your gut make the decision; and in this case, two guts agreed.

We give a nod to the restaurant worker and she runs across the street and fetches the guys, Michael and Ricky, brothers, both somewhere in their fifties. Michael is a huge, bearded man, not that tall, just supersized. The rips in his dirty blue work pants are not fashion statements. He moves like someone should follow behind him with a chair, just in case. Ricky, on the other hand, could use an extra meal or two. He wears a tattered faux-leather and cloth spring jacket, oil stained pants. He vibrates, up and down, and blows on his ungloved hands for warmth.

After they’ve evaluated the situation. Michael’s gesture to us and indicates they have a plan—they’re not big talkers. Then off they go in their vehicle, promising to return, and do so with their truck bed full of empty five-gallon barrels. They spend the next five hours draining Artie of the fluid that’s threatens to poison her system.

We fill two empty barrels with diesel and Ricky and Michael carry them from the station across the street to our truck. Michael is unable help lift the filled container to pour the diesel into our tank because he is weakened by a kidney problem, which requires dialysis. So, the burden of lifting the diesel to the tank is left to Ricky. He grunts as he hoists the gas can and tips it to pour.

“Shit,” he belches out, a minute later, when the gas barrel slips hard to the ground. The steel rod in Michael’s leg is painful and his knee buckles under the weight. He apologizes for having sworn in the company of women. I tell him I say far worse. He looks sheepish and says he sometimes does, too. We high-five and he goes back to putting the 10 gallons of diesel into our tank.

Before they’d started their work, we’d asked them how much they’d charge to empty our tank. Michael assured us that it would be reasonable. (I’ve heard that before from plumbers. But what can we do?) So when our engine is purring, I ask the guys what we owe them. Michael looks thoughtful, rubs his chin and finally says, “Is fifty dollars too much?”

GEEZ!

We gather all the money we have on us and are able give them twice that much—they could only deal in cash—knowing it still doesn’t begin to compensate the two guys for their five hours of hard work in jackets that didn’t keep them warm.

All we can do is add hugs…warm and grateful hugs to the best guys, albeit oily and smelly, at a crossroads somewhere in South Carolina.