“Break It Down Again”

I stood outside of the car, and I was unsure of when the tow truck would drag me away from the embarrassment. The cars began honking. Panic struck me, and I heard the voice of the people I grew up with in my life who had told me just how bad I was at driving. “You should pay more attention!” “You can’t even navigate correctly!” “You make me nervous!” “Man, you suck!” “I’m going to beat your fucking ass!” The sun pelted down. I turned around and looked at the car. The smoke from the gas tank floated up. It had been the first time I had driven in months, but it was clear how little responsibility I had taken in my life.

I held the cellphone up to my ear. The background music looped and looped. I averted my gaze from the row of traffic. I looked up in one instant. A woman with glasses in the passenger seat of an SUV locked eyes with me. She mouthed the words “asshole.” I looked back down at the Toyota Corolla. Still, the music dragged on. It was like a radio show hosted in hell. My skin felt like it was getting baked. I held my neck with my left hand, and I paced back and forth. Standing by the car, I staked my claim. For a moment, I was a legend in Tarrytown. I was the guy who had held up traffic. I was stranded across the street from Funny Thing Vintage. I was a story for a town full of people who drove away from main street either amused or a little more pissed off. The background music stopped.

“What is it I can do for you today?” the person at the other end asked.

“The car broke down, and I’m stranded, and I need help. I think I might have filled the gas tank with the wrong gas, but I really don’t know,” I said.

“How could that be the case?” she asked.

I told her about how at the gas station the woman, how a language barrier might have caused for the mix-up.

“I just filled it, and it was working fine.”

“I see. Can you tell me more about how the car was working the other day?” she asked.

*

Just a day ago, when I had picked up the car, I was on the verge of snapping. We were late, not quite ready to hit the road. In Queens, the streets were cluttered with patches of potholes. Luxury buildings went up at rapid paces, which meant that we were bound to hit some flagmen who stood aimlessly in the roads while all the other people who built the high rises were yelling at frustration. Needless to say, a Friday morning to leave town would still prove to be highly stressful. I entered the driver’s side of the car, and I saw that a memorial service pamphlet on the floorboard. The man who died looked to be in his 30s. I picked it up, and I looked the suit he wore. A black blazer, white shirt, and tie. He had glasses. I put the memorial into the glove compartment, and I waited in front of the building for Sam. I took a deep breath to remind myself where I was. Not only were we late, but something else had become clear to me. It felt like I was driving a hearse.

*

Now that I was broken down on the side of the road, I watched as the traffic flowed through South Broadway. Some people stopped by to ask how we were doing. Others made comments about how irresponsible it was that the car was parked where it was. I looked across the street at “Funny Thing Vintage,” wondering what the people who owned it were thinking. They stared at us with what felt like judgmental eyes, but at some point, I began to care less. I watched with careful detachment of my surroundings, wondering if any of this meant something. If somehow, the car breaking down was a sign from some ulterior force trying to tell me something.

But that wasn’t the case. There was no God. There was no Deus Ex Machina there to provide saving grace. I looked at the car. It was broken down. I knew it wasn’t the first and last time it had ever happened in the human course of history. I sat down at the roots of the tree, exhausted, and trying to look forward to what good could come next. Soon that voice I had heard earlier dissipated. What more could I have done to pay attention? So what if I didn’t navigate correctly? I don’t feel nervous at all. I don’t suck nor do I think I’m going to get jumped on. The brush of wind electrified the branches above, producing an afternoon rustle to remind me that I was far away from the city. I noticed that the shadows had grown.

Eventually, a truck pulled up where I had broken down. “Are you Kris?” the man asked. I nodded my head. He began the process to hook the front of the car to his truck. I remembered when I used to drive a car in college. I had driven it around not really knowing where I was going in a new town that I had lived. I was scared, not knowing I would ever get out of there. The man began inspecting the car. He took pictures. He checked on the wire to make sure it was sturdy. “That’s it,” he told me. I offered my fist, and he bumped it. As he drove away, I watched as the car slowly disappear. The embarrassment that was in my gut had turned into a warm lump in my throat.