After dating somebody for the better part of a decade, the second of my two college roommates is set to get married. Unlike the first bachelor party I covered here this roommate has booked us for Lake Tahoe. Exactly like the first bachelor party, it gives me an opportunity to put my breathtaking stupidity on full display. Here is that story.
It’s Friday morning at 8 am. I won’t get into details, but for the first trick of my one man shitshow I miss my flight, while in the airport, sitting at my gate, looking at the boarding desk.
Please hold your applause.
Anyway, I’m on the phone with the Alaska Airlines Skymiles concierge and she explains that the only route left from Orange County to Lake Tahoe goes through Phoenix and will arrive at 9pm. That’s kind of a rough move for me because not only have I already missed a day of bachelor shenanigans, but the Uber ride from Reno airport to our South Lake Tahoe AirBnB is a full hour, putting me there after 10pm. My other option is what, though? Make an impromptu 400 mile drive?
“Sir, do you want me to book you that flight through Phoenix?”
As I hold the phone, question from the concierge rattling around my near-empty skull, a logic that I haven’t heard since the days of yore speaks to me, a logic from my early twenties:
‘Hey, if you drive it’ll prolly be pretty funny’.
“Sir?”
“You know what? I think I’m fine, thank you. Please return the points.”
Within 30 minutes of hanging up I am putting my 2015 Subaru Outback through its paces. The absolutely gorgeous scenery along the 395 freeway scrolls past, but I have no time to drink in these pastel skies and Bob Ross mountains. I’m fixin’ to do ninety for the vast majority of this trip, and I’ll be goddamned if the romantic vistas flanking this two-lane highway keep me from cracking open a cold one with the boys a single minute more than they have to.
After 200 miles of using the opposing lane to weave around eighteen wheelers, it’s noon-thirty and I stop for gas in Lone Pine. Mountain Dew, mixed nuts, and gasoline for the day’s first meal. I lean against my car and ponder if maybe I should get a real substantive lunch, perhaps let the engine properly cool. My food allergies make roadside dining a hassle for me, so the car is going to have to suffer as well.
I weave and rev for another two hundred miles until I am deliciously close to the aforementioned Air BnB. 40 Minutes. At this point I can practically taste the White Claw. 30 minutes.
A subtle change jolts me from seltzer reverie. For a split second I suspect a thin white smoke is wicking by my window, then, a dazzling array of unfamiliar dash lights clears up all questions. The funnelcake aroma of burning coolant has begun making its way into the cabin. I drop my car below 80 for the first time in hours and ask my phone for the nearest open mechanic, but don’t like what I see. It’s 4:30pm. On a Friday. In a small town.
Ten minutes later I’m standing in the parking lot of a Walmart, jug in hand, essentially pissing in the wind as I watch neon green coolant splash just about everywhere but into the actual fucking reservoir. Buying a funnel helps combat the wind, but the only thing I know about cars is where the coolant goes, and whenever I check, the warning lights on my dash are still flashing like an automotive slot machine. Out of options I risk it and limp my ‘Ru the meagre distance to our mountain cabin.
I’ll have more to say about 5 years of homie backlog in the next installment, but just know that Friday night I am buzzed on panic and White Claw Surge. Put simply: I am 400 Miles from home, an hour from the nearest major airport, and did not bring my work laptop, so I have 48 weekend-hours to fix my car. While chatting about careers and babies with the bois I am scrolling Yelp for a dealership that 1. Is open on a Saturday 2. Has decent reviews 3. Fucks with Subarus. There are two that meet those criteria, and one that Yelp claims to be superior.
At 9 in the morning I gingerly drive the four miles to the superior mechanic. I go well under the speed limit just to be gentle on the engine but I find myself taking in the pines moving by. It would be hard to pick a more beautiful place to have an automotive crisis.
I pull up 10 minutes or so after Yelp claims the place opens. It’s an industrial area, typical of anywhere with it’s humming power lines and cracked asphalt, but it’s got that alpine flavor of green trim on brown warehouses. October weather means I park against a low embankment of dirty snow and step out into the brisk.
There’s an office visible from the street, but it’s not what I’m looking for. It’s a darkened frontage for a diesel and 4 wheel company. Walking along to the left I see a rolling chain link fence protecting an assemblage of wounded cars. There appears to be an open door back there, but no gap in the fence that I can get through. I walk back to my car and call the listed number.
A ring and a half.
“KC’s Automotive.”
“Hello, I’m trying to get my car looked at?”
“That you in the Subaru out there?”
“Uh. Yeah.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Uhm, I think I broke my coolant system? Like, I drove too fast for too long and coolant got all over and there was some smoke. And now I drive about a mile and the coolant’s empty.”
“Sounds like one of two things, but if I’m right it should be a simple fix. Can you come back in about 45 minutes.”
“Oh, so you’re not open right now?”
“No, we’re open. I just can’t seem to find the keys to the front gate. If you come back, by then I should be able to find them. I know they’re here somewhere in the shop.”
“Uhhhhhh. Okay. Thanks. Bye”
I was so busy being confused about how this man lost the keys to his own business that I didn’t stop to wonder whether the voice on the other end of the phone was southern or Australian.
All I’m certain of is that once again it’s time to gamble. I can either hedge my bets with the second-choice dealership, or I can pray to God that the no-keys-man I just talked to is a wrench wizard.
We all know which I picked.
About an hour later a man in overalls is summoning me through the gate, pointing to the patch of semi-wet asphalt where I should rest my car. Karl is a man of greying hairs, but he absolutely thrums with energy. I pop the hood of my car. He takes a look at the cooling setup and unscrews an oblong cap. He flips the thing over and a constant stream of words pour out of his mouth tilted by an English accent.
“Ah, you’re gonna be fine, mate, it’s just as I thought.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Let me make a phone call and we should have you out of here in 30 minutes, tops.” Karl speed dials a courier and asks for a specific part while I, meanwhile, try not to float off in relief. Order accomplished, Karl wriggles under a jacked-up Hyundai and spews banter. I feel downright voyeuristic as I try to type everything he says on my phone.
Some things I learned about Karl:
1. Married to an American woman for 21 years
2. 7 children
3. Does not stop talking (Game respect game)
Karl is a content machine. Decades of life on this planet, a life under hoods, have given him time to hone himself into a near-caricature. He has a dgaf honesty and a stable of one-liners that, in my short time standing in his junkyard, I can only touch the surface of.
When I’m explaining how I prefer my new 6-cylinder Subaru to my old 4-cylinder one I get this chestnut.
“You know why Subarus are in so few accidents?”
“No, why?”
“Because they don’t have enough power to get to the accident on time!”
He asks what I do. I explain how I dispassionately send and receive emails all day like a normal jerkoff.
“Oh, so you’re just a fucking mug?” he says.
You have no idea, Karl. You have no idea.
Karl is gushing about how he met his wife when a logo’d sprint van slushes to a stop, producing a uniformed courier. As the man’s fresh Nikes squeak towards us the first words out of Karl’s mouth are “Nice Shoes, do they come in men’s?” I don’t love the quip, but since Karl is about to unfuck my whole weekend he can parrot whatever tired insults he likes. The two acquaintances exchange barbs before the courier and his van disappear unceremoniously. What Karl does with the small piece he pulls out of the box is simple and quick, but in my brief time I pick up a few things.
Things I learned about Radiator Caps:
1. They have valves to account for the changes in pressure when coolant heats up or cools down
2. A change in altitude also leads to change in pressure, thus stressing the valve
3. Mine had ruptured
Karl slams the hood and says for a deal of this size he usually works with cash, because of course. By this point I’m so happy I don’t care what kind of money-laundering scheme he runs out of his cluttered office. The whole endeavor costs me 3 twenty dollar bills and about an hour. The only thing bringing me down as I drive my car away is the fact that he can’t be my go-to mechanic back home.
Within 20 minutes of exchanging cash I am back in the cabin, and within an hour I am drinking in a casino, watching college football and listening to how my friend enjoys receiving rusty trombones. All is well, and I’m struck by one more fun fact.
Things I learned about life:
1. Sometimes the stupid are not punished for their mistakes
You may be saying. “Rick, why did you bother to type this? The story had no point.” Well congratulations, I don’t have a Yelp account and this is the longest Yelp review you’ve ever read.
I Did This To Me 