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August 25, 2005
Wrong Directions
Yesterday I was driving home from work on I-97; something that even in normal instances is more than frustrating.
For one everyone, even the guy that moves along at 45 mph, seems to think they belong in the left lane. "Hey, I'm driving, aren't I? Their looks seem to say as I pass them on the left side.
That is unless they're on the phone. And there seems to be something in the Annapolis water that compels them hold their cell phones to their ears and chat away as they drive. That is drive, weave across lanes, or like this morning: come to a complete stop on the interstate in effort to keep safe while blabbing away about something or another.
But yesterday I found a hole in one of the middle lanes. I saw I'd be able to shoot ahead in the abandoned lane and not have to put up with everyone doing no more than the legal limit. I went for it.
I reached cruising speed and started to pass a slow moving older car when it felt like I hit a bump. My car wiggled a little and I checked the rear-view mirror to see what it was.
Nothing.
That's strange, I thought. I could have sworn I ran something over.
Then I heard a loud growling noise.
Oh, shit. It sounds like that time I lost my exhaust system in South Dakota, I thought. I once was driving through the badlands when at the bottom of a hill my car stalled for a split second then lurched forward with a loud bang. I kept driving and the bang turned into a sustained roar. I pulled over to the side of the road and looked under the car. It turned out my exhaust system detached from the engine. All I had left was a pipe sticking out of the engine. I didn't just lose the muffler; I lost the catalytic converter as well. I also found that even a little Toyota Corolla is loud as hell without those tow things. I did gain a little pickup, got even better gas mileage and was able to drive past cars and set off their alarms, though. So I guess it wasn't a total loss.
But the noise wasn't quite the same. It wasn't nearly as bad. So I assigned blame for the noise to the old car next to me and stepped on the gas.
I didn't go any faster, in fact I slowed down.
Shit. I blew a tire.
So I pulled over to the side of the road to change my tire.
I've changed a tire before. I practiced doing it anyway. I've never actually had to change a tire. I've never been in a situation where I've had to change a tire. Sure, I've gotten flats before. I come to expect it living in the neighborhood I do. The streets are littered with broken 40oz bottles and generous people from all around Baltimore leave construction debris in the alleys on a regular basis. But I've been able to patch up every flat I've gotten. I've never had to change the tire.
When you haven't changed or rotated your tires in years the nuts and bolts holding them on start to rust and corrode ever so slightly making it nearly impossible to turn the nuts with a tire iron. Thank god for books. Reading You Shall Know Our Velocity by Dave Eggers I learned a way to get the nuts to move. In the book the main character learned the technique (don't jack up the car, leave it on the ground, put the tire iron on the nuts about parallel to the ground and slam your foot down on the tire iron. Jack the car up after you've loosen the bolts) from an old African man on the side of a West African road.
My African, however, was on the side of I-97.
I already had the nuts loose and was jacking up the car when someone pulled to the side of the road in front of me. Suddenly that male "I-don't-need-any-help" thing kicked in. Can't he see I've got it? I'm not helpless here. But no one stepped from the Mercedes, so I kept on jacking up the car.
After a couple minutes a man stepped over to me. I hadn't seen him coming, so I was a little startled when I heard him. "Excuse me." He yelled over the sound of traffic. I was about to tell him I didn't need his help when I looked up and saw him. He was dressed in a bright white dress shirt unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest. He had a couple gold medallions there on display and fingers covered with gold rings. I figured I wouldn't need to tell him I didn't need any help; he looked he wasn't going to ask if he could help me anyway.
"Could you tell me how to get to Silver Spring?" He asked with a strong accent. "I am trying to get to Silver Spring."
It's a little weird to ask someone broken down on the side of the road for directions, I thought, but I figured I'd help him anyway.
"I have directions that say take 97 to 295 to 95 toward Washington DC."
"No, this road doesn't meet 295. Take 895 West."
Then he started to argue with me. "No, from here how do I get to 295?"
Isn't it bad ettiquete to tell someone their directions are wrong when they give you directions? Or is it just not done because when you ask for directions it's because you need them?
"The roads don't meet."
"Then where do I go?"
"Take 895 West to 95 South. That's the way to DC."
"How do I get there?"
"Take this road."
"This is 895 West?"
"No, this is 97."
"Ok, then how do I get to 895 West?"
"Go down this road."
"Right or left?"
"Straight."
"How do I get to 895 West?"
Holy shit. "Go straight down this road and you'll see a sign."
He wanted explicit details on how to make every turn, and I tried my best. After about five minutes explaining how to make two turns I got back to changing my tire. I got it done and started down the road.
Then I realized I gave him the wrong directions.
Posted by calculatoronfire at August 25, 2005 03:46 PM
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