My brother had suggested that I take our parents down to his church in Killeen for Easter services. Since my car is running on a spare tire at the moment (long story), we decided I would drive my parents’ car. A perfect Easter Sunday plan – it seemed.
About 75 miles into our trip, we pulled into a truck stop to use the facilities. We had been making good time and it looked like for once I wouldn’t be late. It’s a little embarrassing to be late when your brother’s the priest.
Ready to get back on the road, I slid behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. Not that the engine was dead - the key would not turn. I jiggled the steering wheel. Nothing. Dad got up front and tried. No results. Out came my trusty iPhone to look up possible solutions to the problem. “Dad,” I called out, “this site says to turn the steering wheel hard to the right while you’re turning the key.” He obeyed. The steering wheel promptly locked in place and the key still refused to budge.
The round-faced gentleman behind the cash register saw us through the window and came out. In heavily accented English, he said he was a shade-tree mechanic and would be happy to try. Dad got out and our would-be rescuer took his place behind the wheel. Jiggle... turn... pump the pedals... He got the steering wheel unstuck, but the key still would not turn.
A scholarly-looking man with the same accent came out. “Why don’t I try?” he asked, and took the spot behind the wheel. Jiggle... turn... nothing.
Pretty soon, another gas station customer came over. “Why don’t I try?” he asked, and the drill was repeated. People stopped by to give advice. Dad and I took turns helpfully holding the door open against the wind. Mom sat in the car watching as one person and then another "gave it a try".
A family walked by and asked “Anything we can do?” Half-joking, I answered, “Yeah – know anyone who can hotwire a car?” The adults shook their heads. The teenage son said “Well...no, I guess not, he doesn’t live around here anymore.” His parents gave him a look that meant a Conversation would soon occur in the family car.
The largest red pickup truck I’ve ever seen had been idling nearby. After observing the failed attempts, a young man got out and identified himself as a licensed mechanic. Our hopes rose as he slid behind the steering wheel; finally, an expert!
Jiggle...turn...pump the pedals...
Nothing. Nothing, that is, except that now the key wouldn’t turn, the steering wheel was locked again and the hand-brake was stuck.
The driver of the red pickup got out. He was about 6’ 2”, dressed in a long-sleeved camo shirt, shorts and hiking boots, with a fishing cap on his head. He was a man on a mission, and his buddy’s good deed of the day was wasting daylight. While the mechanic tried working on the ignition with a screwdriver, the young man in hiking boots began pushing my parents’ car back and forth. We could see my mother’s hair gently swaying as she was rocked.
Somewhere around then, I bowed to the inevitable and text-messaged my brother and sister-in-law to let them know we would not be in church (since the service was already well underway, it was an announcement of the obvious.) Then, I called roadside assistance. The conversation went a little like this:
“What’s wrong with your car?”
“We can’t get the key to turn in the ignition.”
“You mean the car won’t start?”
“No, the key won’t turn.”
“Is your battery dead?”
“No, the key won’t turn.”
“Have you tried jiggling the steering wheel...?”
Eventually, we established that The Key Wouldn’t Turn and a tow truck was sent to pick us up. Meanwhile, our helpful gas station owners – from their patterns of speech, they were possibly from India – came out to offer my parents the use of the lounge to rest in while we waited.
I peeked into the lounge. A lone trucker lay on the couch and looked up at me with bloodshot eyes. On the coffee table, beside whatever it was he was smoking, was an open soda can and a half-dozen flies. We thanked our willing hosts and chose to wait in the car.
My mother sang a couple of Easter hymns. Dad and I idly discussed theology. Then, the tow truck arrived. The driver had not been informed that there were three passengers and, despite the dispatcher’s assurances to the contrary, he only had room for two. We got my arthritic mother into the cab of the tow truck (a process that involved creating a series of extra steps using a wooden chock) and my parents took off for Dallas. I called the nearest son to come rescue me.
Hungry, I walked over to the fast food joint attached to the truck stop. The young woman behind the counter also appeared to be from India. A weather-beaten farmer slowly nursed his iced tea across the room from me. A few minutes later, a family came in. The parents told their teenage daughter in Spanish what they wanted. The girl relayed it to the young Indian woman in English, who then turned and called the order back to the kitchen in her own language.
I sat in my corner eating my Easter lunch, listening to the polyglot tones of Church’s Chicken and waiting for my ride.
It was a perfect Easter Sunday with the well-intentioned angels at the Gator Stop.
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