6:00 PM

    My bladder relieved, the gas tank full, I was content to continue on down the ugliest stretch of Jersey Turnpike and to my home. Then, that horrible rattling began, deep inside the engine of my 1988 Camry, which was fully loaded with power windows, power sunroof, and 187,000 miles.
    No more then 2 miles away from the rest stop, the hollow rattling gave way to a neck-snapping jolt that threw my vehicle into neutral and pointed it to the side of the road. I left a trail of smoke and obscenities from the far left lane to the far right lane and into the emergency lane, then fled from car, else I be included in the horrible post-breakdown explosion that was sure to follow.
    Luckily, my nervous mother shared with me her AAA membership, so I called for emergency roadside assistance, then waited. I waited with thoughts running through my head- thoughts of revenge. I am certain that when the Full Serve gas station attendant was “filling” my gas tank, one of his cronies slipped a wrench or gremlin into the hood of my car. They get $20 in gas out of you, then a phone call from the side of the road, asking for a tow. Not from me- all you’ll get is a taste of my boot! No, that would entail extra mileage from the tow truck… and that would entail extra charges, which I was in no position to pay.
    Better that this inconvenience happens now, rather than on my way to the western edge of America. I know East Coast people, and can deal with them. Once west of Tennessee, my experience ends, and the middle-town folk will smell city on me right away. So now I wait, kicking rocks and reading an instructional book on chess, waiting for the tow truck to drive me and my fallen steed to safety.

7:00 PM

    That took much longer than necessary. The brash tower, after laughing at my situation, charged an inappropriate amount of cash for this menial service, but I had no way of refusing him my business. He had a monopoly on the towing-you-from-the-Turnpike industry, and I was powerless against any charges he seemed fit to charge me.
    Now I am at the hotel/car rental agency, sitting in my car, realizing that I am in no better situation than an hour ago; my scenery has just changed. I cannot afford a room, even at the Quality Inn, one of the divest hotels around. And the rental car establishment does not do business with individuals under 25. After talking with the desk clerk and the rental agent, it was apparent that they did not like me, and any bartering would be a waste of time.
    I managed to call a buddy of mine from D.C., and he agreed to pick me up tomorrow in the afternoon. Plots to entertain the next 20 hours of my life started to slowly fill my brain. And what now? I have reached the present, and I am here. Perhaps if I start writing an imaginary scenario, involving a brilliant beautiful woman and a comfortable bed, it will come to be later realized? I must say though, the odds are against it. There are some geese wandering aimlessly across the street near a pond. They need to be chased…

7:45 PM

     I didn’t catch a goose. I was able to touch one of them, but it began to furiously bat its wings at me, and I fled. For such a seemingly graceful animal, it was surprisingly intimidating and powerful. Now, to take stock of what I have to use at my disposal:

- Frisbee
- basketball
- toiletries
- mobile phone (with dying batteries)
- Discman without headphones
- oatmeal packets (possible bait for small mammals)
- movie props
- instructional book on chess
- dirty clothing
- cup of change (too bad I didn’t break down in Foxwoods, CT)
- canned soup products
- broken car

    If only I hadn’t used all my smoke bombs so liberally in Boston, another half-hour could be spent very easily. I see a dumpster across the street from the parking lot. This requires investigation…

12:30 PM (Next Day)

     While en route to the dumpster, I happened across a basketball hoop, which coincided perfectly with the basketball resting in the trunk of my now-deceased motor car. I took the ball out, shot around for a bit, then was approached by two boys of about my age, driving by in an SUV. The passenger asked for the ball. I realized that the threat of never seeing that ball again was very real, but eager to find some amusement, I tossed the ball into the vehicle. He took a shot with it, hit nothing. I invited them out for a bit- perhaps a game? They parked and joined me.
     At first, it was nearly impossible to distinguish what was being said. These two characters, Michael and Jerry, were Irish-men, fresh to the states from London, England. Their impossible accents sounded like a mixture of crippled English and some old Druid language, extinct thousands of years ago. They seemed nice enough, and claimed to have a car for sale. After some pleasantries, I decided to go with them.
     I dropped the basketball (and my wallet… I don’t like being outnumbered by strangers when I am carrying any amount of money) off at the car, then rejoined them under the hoop. They had found a couple of kittens, which they were trying to make mate with each other. Eager to put my resources to use, I ran back to my car, retrieved the oats and soup products from my trunk, and smashed them open, hoping that the poor kittens would at least have a meal tonight. They decided not to eat, so we thought it best to let them free. Jerry, the smaller and more brutal of the two, grabbed one by the neck and attempted to toss it onto the roof of a nearby shed. He didn’t quite have the height, so the cat, after smacking the roof, fell to the ground 9on its cat-feet) and scampered off. It was time to look at new cars.
     While in the SUV, Jerry asked incredibly personal questions like “Do you like to fuck the men?” and “What does your girlfriends pussy taste like?” which I avoided with great tact. “Straight as a pole!” I said, “And it has that authentic, char-broiled taste!”
     Michael had much more interesting things to say, and was constantly apologizing for his brash friend. The Irish, I have found, have the best of intentions, but love telling lies and pranking strangers. I am unsure if Jerry was really his name, because all of them, everyone at the hotel and his brother and father and their mates from Ireland and London, all were named Jerry. Everyone. And Jerry’s age kept changing from 20 to 15 to 17 to 21 and so on, always in a constant state of flux. It was a strange case of good cop/bad cop, with Jerry making some aggressive comment about how “all Irish men hate gays”, and that I “have a certain feminine swagger” then Michael coming in and telling me to ignore his comments, and asking me questions about my travels and goals.
     Michael was a great character, but had a horrible memory. At least ten time he learned that I was from Virginia, five times that my car broke down on the way home from Boston, five times that I am going to California when I scrape up some money, and twenty times that my name was Micky. On multiple occasions, I was added to the long life of people named Jerry.
 I later learned that they were both illiterate contractors- paid to get up at 6 every morning and lay tar on driveways, and such other physical work as that. I miss my more laborious days- physically working for people who need things done, as opposed to fake-mentally working for people just trying to get rich. Anyway, when asked of his Test in life- what he goes forward towards, he said remaining a contractor. His father and grandfather were contractors, and he wants nothing more than to remain a contractor, with a few bucks in his pocket for drink and a few girls in his bed for whatever they might find to pass the hours.
     We got to the car, which appeared to be in good shape from the outside, but they told me that I would have to wait until the morning to test drive it, because his brother (Jerry) had the keys, and was out at a local amusement park. We drove back to the hotel, and I was invited to meet their mates.
     We walked into the room, and I thought “This is it. This is when I get robbed and gang-raped.” There were six large, intimidating men lying around the room, drinking beers and wearing rugby shirts. Instead of making a rush for me, they warmly greeted me in their best American accent, then held a too-rapid conversation with Michael and Jerry in their native tongue. I picked up words and fragments here and there, but for the most part I remained silent in the corner. I was able to distinguish the words “Jerry! (trying to get my attention)” and “beer!” what was being pointed at me. I graciously accepted.
     My original hosts left to get some sleep, and I was left alone with two others- one with a wife back in Ireland and one an English chap, from London as well. What followed was an engaging conversation, 95% of which I understood, relating our past stories and opinions and sharing beers and laughing and having a few good hours of company. I was reserved a place on the floor for the night, until the next morning when Michael’s brother (whom the did not call Jerry) would show me the car at 7 AM.
     I woke at 7, and there was no sign of the brother. Michael came by the room and led me to his, where his brother was still asleep, obviously exhausted from running around all night at an amusement park. I waited for him to wake up, 7:30 then 8, and realized that he was never going to wake up, and I needed a ride home. I bailed on the used car idea, got to a pay phone, and called my friend, asking him to come pick me up. I played some more basketball to pass the time, and at around noon, the whole gang came by in the SUV and stopped to have a chat.
    Michael was hurt that I could possibly have ever doubted his intentions, but I explained to him that it was absolutely imperative that I get back home that evening. I told him that I would call him when I get in, and find out how to get back to Jersey and see about the $500 car. In an awkward moment, I handed him a piece of paper and asked him to write his name, address, and phone number on it, so that I may reach him. He started to write his address, but admitted defeat long before I realized what a fool I had made of both him and myself. I took down his address by mouth, and he drove off, back to work. The whole gang was smiles and jokes and a gleeful hatred of gays… and all named Jerry.
 

THE END