Alternate Plans

It’s not Bubba or Billy Bob’s garage, but it’s close. I’ll have to change the name, of course, but you can picture the sort of backroads country auto garage out in Louisa County. On this particular Monday morning Hank, the owner and lead mechanic, is on his way over to his buddy’s machine shop to press out a wheel bearing. Buddy owns a different shop and has the press Hank needs. After that he’s got some errands to run. Maybe he’ll go on down to Pop’s “Pick and Pull,” see about that part for the ’78 Ford pick-up he’s working on. But he won’t be going alone. Hank is about to take a call from a stranded 16-year-old driver en route to visit his sister at UVA when the alternator quit.

You can picture the setting. It’ll come up as a “service station” on Yelp all right, and sure, they have towing for a flat $75 pick-up plus $4/ mile, but it’s basically a two-bay cinderblock structure with more vehicles scattered around it than a CarMax. Actually, maybe you should dock it a bay since that Chevy Nova parked in front of one doesn’t have any wheels on it and won’t be going anywhere soon. Dozens of vehicles in various stages of rust scattered around like sandbox toys, all over a five-acre lot hidden from the road by a fence with more gaps in it than some people’s teeth. Unpaved gravel drive with waist-high grass poking through the gravel…the “lot” no more than a lumpy meadow strewn with cars and trucks. That sort of garage. I can see it on Google maps. Since this is where Will’s dot has taken me bright and early on a Monday morning.

If Hank’s Auto Service and Repair is a stereotype then so am I, micro-manager mom that I am. Just for the record, I did not text or call Will the instant his Life360 alert came through. I get them every time he drives, and they bring me great comfort, since nothing about having a teenage driver on the roads is comforting. So when it popped up—”Will completed a 45 mile drive, top speed (something reasonable)” —I took a second look. Completed?? Forty-five miles? UVA is about double that from home, and so I look him up. Sure enough, Boy is just past halfway there. He probably just pulled over to check his phone or his map or something simple and responsible like that, as this driver is wont to do. Will is determined to drive sans cell these days and so is frequently found consulting or drawing paper maps, printing out Google directions, poring over the Rand McNally. That sort of thing. People, you don’t know how spoiled I am with this kid. And he drives the speed limit. So I talk down the tiger mom in me and I go about my day. It’s my policy never to bother my kids while they’re on the road. An hour later, dot still hasn’t moved. Wait, what? What’s that you say–“Call him, you idiot!”? Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the whir of those helicopter blades.

“Well, actually, no,” he says when I reach side-of-the-road boy with my query, all good? “I’m fine but I’m not going to Charlottesville today. Yeah, I called Soph and let her know. It’s a no go.” And I proceed to get a very animated account of all the ways our trusty Toyota Rav-4 started to fail. When the warning indicators lit up on the dash he figured it was a fuse issue. He’d been fiddling with those just this morning. But then his traction control and power steering lights come on and then—sure enough, his power steering is out. Somethin’ not right. Did he have that same desperate feeling I did earlier this month when I could hear the tire going flat—just. keep. driving. I’m one to try and outrun ’em. Disasters. But Boy is a boy and this is his first breakdown. He takes it incredibly seriously. Studies it parts. And does the right thing. He takes the next exit onto a much lesser road, his mind whirling—left or right?—looking for any service station or sign of civilization, chooses an 8-10 foot wide gravel strip running alongside and then off the road, pulls onto that, and lands. For good. After he gets off the phone with his father, car won’t start. “I parked near a cross street with a sign,” he said, “so I knew I’d have a traceable address.” Reason he didn’t call me right away, he’s been back and forth on the phone with his dad diagnosing the problem and discussing what to do. He’s called AAA and every garage in a 20-mile radius asking if they have the part. If they can tow. ‘S’all good.

I am heart broken. This plan was so hard in the making, and here it was—a mother’s delight, down to the fresh-baked Zucchini bread for Sophie and her friends. I am desperate. Instantly I want to act, do something, jump in the ‘copter, deploy the parents’ rescue team. But I’m about paralyzed with disappointment. He was so excited for the trip. Trying to pin the ‘wind girl’ is not easy, and we all wish for more time. Will had scored some. He had gotten up early to load the things she asked for. He’s dressed in his favorite shirt that I had just washed and pressed for tomorrow’s senior portrait session—a moderately loud button-down covered in giant palm leaves. Going out of here he looks like….well, he looks like a college kid himself. Clean. Excited. Purposeful. This was the first trip he asked to make solo six months ago when he was newly licensed. What am I saying?! He’s a teenage boy responsible for doubling our car insurance. He’ll be newly licensed for decades.

So here he is, an hour and some into the ill-fated trip, having the presence of mind to get off the highway, and then off the road entirely, pulling to a hopeful halt at GPS coordinates for an address on Mount Airy Road. It’s a two-lane back road running parallel to Rte 64. And here is boy disembarking the vehicle to get out of the hot sun and wait a safe distance, as we’ve always counseled, by the side of the road. Get far from the vehicle, son, they’re like magnets to speeding, out-of-control 18 wheelers on the highway—”Mom, MOM! It’s a side road” (too much YouTube, all of us). He has stowed the items he was delivering to his sister and has evacuated with his water bottle, wallet, and a heavy steel pipe he got out of the back. A smirk with that last bit, the pipe. Is that right? I say over the kitchen table as much, much later he details the unfolding of his day. So boy does have a read on things, after all. Kinda like that 7″ switchblade and full cannister of mace I caught sight of in his gear when he took me backpacking. Sad, sorry, but true. It’s no bad thing to be prepared.

Thank goodness I coached him last month before his solo trip to visit colleges. What kind of nutty idea was that? Everybody knows you need a perky, over-prepared mom with sweaty face and a clipboard trotting alongside the college ambassador, making side chats when the poor kid is trying to address a group. Will wanted to go it alone. So he did. But not before I got in the passenger side of the car and spilled the contents of the glove box all over seat. Ok son, what to do if you get pulled over. What to say to the officer and how to conduct yourself. What to do if you get in a wreck—I’m waving the ancient yellow cardstock “CALL POLICE” that has been transferred from car to car in our fleet down through the years. Sometimes kids don’t know what all they’re carrying, what they’re loaded up with. So I show him. I show him the safety inspection and corresponding sticker, the registration and corresponding tags, the proof of Insurance card, AAA membership card and the phone number, the flashlight, the flares, the first aid and back up first aid kits and the strictest counsel never to get out of the vehicle if he feels threatened. “It’s OK mom,” he assures me over the phone today. “It’s gonna be fine. I got Hank’s garage on the line. They should be here any minute.”

From here on out, time will be measured not in minutes, but hours. The day comes to a screeching halt like a car without an alternator. Since for us the epicenter of concern has relocated to Goochland, it’s starting to feel a little more like his dad and I are the ones stranded even though we have two fully operational vehicles. I decide to go about mine and wait for updates from the guys. This is an automotive matter and my interference will only gum up the works. Boy is safe (all that matters) handling his own crisis (many ways to play it and mine would be unwelcome) and it’s still broad daylight. Plus there’s only one wafer-thin tornado warning issued for the entire central Virginia until 8 p.m. All afternoon I’m getting emails and alerts about area businesses and activities closing early on account of weather. I am really trying to turn down the panic on this one. The last time a killer twister went through here—or was that an earthquake? Oh, right. The epicenter of the earthquake that cracked the Washington National Cathedral was in Mineral, Va., 59 minutes from our house and five miles—yes, FIVE—from where Will is standing right now—er, sitting…er—waiting… er—what in the ^%$#@ is he doing?

The day drags. Lordy, how it drags. Sometimes the dot shows him walking, sometimes it shows him “near” the address at which he broke down; finally it shows him driving, which can only mean Hank found him and is towing him to his garage—16 miles away! So much for five or six. Every so often I look up the dot and there it is, faithfully blinking back at me from Mount Airy Road. I’m trying not to let it bother me that for a couple hours now boy is not answering his phone or responding to texts. That is a problem, especially since he can’t use “I was driving” as an excuse. Where is he? Turns out, the tale is way more colorful than freshly laundered Hawaiian shirt. Turns out, Hank, of Hanks Auto Service and Repair, didn’t exactly have “the” part—as in, the alternator Will had called around about. But he can take Will to get one. So boy is given two options: stay here with the car and this garage-not-garage with Hank’s 17-year old son, Skeeter*, who is going to fix it, or run a couple errands with Hank and pick up the needed part. There wasn’t anywhere to wait other than under a tree or in his car, and the day is supremely hot. So when Hank offers You wanna come? Will shrugs, grabs his wallet, leaves the pipe, forgets the phone entirely and hops in.

First on the docket: get to the tool that can press out a wheel bearing. So they hop in Hank’s little Ford Escape and head over to the buddy’s shop. Place is hummin’ with guys and repair jobs: Go-carts, lawn tractors, ATVS, a big Kubota in the corner with a couple guys standing around it. Everybody here knows Hank. Sure you can use it. They are gerry-rigging a wheel bearing out of a car spindle. Apparently this job is one Will is intimately familiar with (How? How do you know that, son?) He explains it to me: “The spindle is this weird looking metal thing that connects the steering linkage, the axle and the suspension including the brake calipers and a place for the tire to go in and mount. So, yeah, so he needed to replace that. And he’s got the right machine—it’s basically this 7′ tall hydraulic arm/lift thing that can press, like 50 tons. But it’s basically three separate jobs (for reasons that entail another 10 minutes of mechanical detailing I will omit here) and you need to fit it with the right size rubber puck each time and you…” He looks at me sheepishly: “Dad and I usually just use a hammer.”

Turns out to be a good thing boy is along for the ride because he’s the one willing to get down on the floor with the five feet of parts, wheels, and fittings sprayed around and find the right size pucks to get the job done. “Mom, it coulda been done in 15 minutes, but all Hank’s friends are there, working on stuff and coming over to talk and just stand there talking so he’s gotta talk to them all. So we were there, like, a couple hours.” Then they hop back in the Ford to go by the local USDA to pick up Hank’s Pandemic Assistance check for his 80 heads of cattle. No check, so Hank is a little bummed about that. Still, they drive out a piece to check on the cattle. He used to have 200 chickens as well. Then to cheer himself up he offers to take Will by McDonald’s for something to eat. His treat. From there they head to the local auto parts store where he uses his commercial account to help Will load up the “cart” (my treat) with an alternator and a belt so Skeeter can put it in just soon as they get back. Four hours from now.

They’re all just as chatty and friendly at the local Parts-R-Us. No ‘hello’ from the girl at the cash register as they walk in, just “Whadja break this time, Hank?” He introduces his sidekick. Same thing here as happened in the buddy’s shop: language instantly filters cleaner and they take to discussing the tornado watch (which has gone up to warning) and a recent hit and run. Stockroom guy is tellin’ Hank how he needs some bigger tires for his truck, Hank asks if they can get him an axle for another car—negative, so he starts calling around to other shops to see if he can get one, and in between guys coming in and out of the store, slappin’ each other on the back and making small talk. No one in a rush to get out of the way of an impending tornado. Will knows he should be getting on the road. And after about 28 total minutes of actual labor, once they get back to Hank’s ~~driveway~~ garage and Skeeter is waiting with the battery charged and dead part removed, he does just that, new alternator (and the rest of the engine block) christened in the anti-freeze that spilled all over when Skeeter removed the overflow, belt tensioner quickly coming online, no warning lights on, engine hummin’ along. Boy takes one look at the truly darkening sky and hits the road for home.

There are a lot of “if-onlys” to this day. If only he’d reached a different service station on the phone. If only Hank hadn’t told him “sure” he had the part, or that he was “only” five miles away. Going further back… If only I’d made him take my car. I’d thought about it. I came out to the driveway moments before departure to see the hood up, boy leaning over the engine, tinkering with something. That’s never a good sign. He was studying the fuse box, wiggling one free and then poking it back in, one after the other. Trying to figure out why car has been failing to charge his cell phone recently. Oh really?? I think now, with hindsight. It’s not charging your phone? If only I’d known what that meant. If only Bill and I had jumped all over that “Ellie’s car is making a weird noise” comment at the dinner table last week. If only he’d called me right when the breakdown happened. I might have shot out the gate to put fresh working wheels beneath him and thus maintain the plan. Lord knows how I like to stay the course. If only Sophie had hopped in her car and driven the 40 minutes to—to what? Put another stalled and stranded body out in the 90 degree heat? I guess in a more normal setting (hindsight again) she could have actually collected her brother and gone about the day. But here’s the thing. If you don’t muscle your way into the driver’s seat (causing stress, strife and upsetting relationships) you can’t really whine about where the car takes you.

And along with the what-ifs go the Godsends. Note how closely they are related to the what-ifs. Because the car had not been charging Will’s phone lately and because he expected to be gone all day, he took his battery back-up charger. Ordinarily, he might spurn such preparation, preferring simplicity and freedom. So today, just because he’s at 13% now, stranded in the searing heat on the side of the road waiting for a tow from ol’ Hank, he has a fully charged battery charger. And a full water bottle. Oh boy scout, I could hug you. Godsends help you shake that old feeling that we’re all just sitting ducks on the disasters of life. Another one? It’s daytime. A Monday morning at that. Can’t tell you how many times my people wanna set out at night. I am grateful he had the whole day. Never in a million years did I think he’d need it.

Another Godsend: that zucchini bread. Because as the day wears on I am more aware probably even than Will that he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. My alarm is mounting, since I’ve seen first-hand the amounts of food it takes to keep his engine running… At one point I was resolved to just drive out there; I even conferred with Bill—”Hey, once you guys get the plan in motion I may just drive out there with moral support and take him some food, OK? Whaddya think?” Looking for Bill, somebody, anybody to take pity on this worn out mama’s heart which by late afternoon is needing to do something. But can you imagine? Can you even imagine it. Boy has been riding around shotgun to this and that shop, garage, junk mart and stop-off, stopping and dropping and chilling with the good old boys and his mom is going to…show up with sandwiches??! Lunacy! Luckily, the inspiration passes. “Will!” I text, “There’s food! You have food on board. Get out the loaf of zucchini bread and have at it!”

The Godsends go further back, too. For one, Will is not thrown off by a workshop teeming with–er, resources. There are perks to growing up in a garage full of ~~junk~~. stuff. He may not be dressed for it, but he knows what these machines are called and what they do, and the dust and the dirt and the grease the gas and the oil and the spare parts, and the unfinished projects are to Will like a comfy home. He’s been raised in that can-do, why-not world of more broken than running, more waiting than having, more makeshift, make-do, and maybe go without. I’m sure he stuck out like a sore thumb—college bound boy in a literal sense today and in a larger one too, clean cut and awkward, but I also know how well this boy woulda dug in (verb, no accident) with his new rumbly man voice and even newer license, leaking the warmth and charm and helpfulness he’s always had and thank you Lord won’t lose. Plus I promise you, he’s not a total novice. You think it’s money or learning that separates us from the hardness in life? Think again. I’ll give you break down. We’ve had some busted stuff around here, too, I tell you what. And boy is trained.

For another, he is well versed, PhD in fact, in hard knocks and alternate plans. When I think about the kind of patience that has been forged in the furnace of failure at our house. In our own “service station and garage,” if you will. The days of that go-kart. Thing was broken more than running, and the joy and the anticipation was constantly being dashed by some part or bit not functioning the way it was supposed to. He would lose sleep for dreaming of all the cool rides he would take and then lost whole weekends trying to unbend an axle or repair a carburetor. His father, in it with him up to the greasy elbows, boyish in his shared excitement, brilliant in his work-arounds and brainy engineering, and biting his tongue every time junior wanted to do it his way. You think Boy is resourceful and unflappable? You should see the dad. Me, I lost years off my life, living through the desperation, anger and grief that leaked out of our garage. Then the bikes. The hours and endless hours trying to get something to go… And drones? What about drones. They send out some sort of high frequency siren like a dog whistle, only for boys. I actually had to forbid drones in our home. Forbid them. Infernal things of Satan. Boy’s young eyes would just glow with something approaching holy rapture as he watched one soar from someone else’s hands. Oh, but to have one here. Five minutes into it and it’s a pile of micro matchsticks on the ground. Done. No more. If we had a dollar for every mechanical-electrical-technological breakdown around here, well we’d be able to treat Hank and all his buddies to a very fine lunch indeed.

Recently at the lake I got a flat. Eviscerated the thing going 15 mph on a country road around a private lake, tire pooled like pants that are too long around the ankle. Called my teenager right away, of course, back at the house but he no answer phone, of course. So I was on my own. Luckily my high school Spanish teacher and driving ed instructor taught us—each one in the class, to change a flat. Forty years ago. Come in handy many a time. Will, I asked him recently, if I had reached you by phone that day, and you had come to help, would you have known what to do? Have you ever changed a tire? “Nope,” says he. “But I woulda figured it out.” Of course he would have, and faster than I at that. “You just gotta find that lift point under the vehicle,” he says, confirming what I also learned and one of the first things I did, getting down on my knees on the gravel roadside. “Yeah, that’s key. I think if you find that solid place to support you the rest is easy.” Indeed.

So, Boy has found his lift point. Soon he and Skeeter will pull their four covered-in-grease forearms out of his engine cavity, lower the hood—thunk, and turn her over. Will will keep his concerns to himself—the radiator fluid all over the engine and the new part, the clouds around him turning a funny color and starting to move more quickly. He decides he will, too. Move more quickly. So he says his genuine thanks and good-bye, breaks free of this day, this way, and points the car toward home. “Mom,” he will tell me later over the (late to) dinner table: “It wasn’t the day I planned. But it was alright.” And it was. I guess like every “disaster,” every detour, there is much to be learned. Today’s lesson was ostensibly about patience. And if he ever gets home tonight, I think (my patience also having been sorely tested), I’m going to have to turn that shirt around right quick for tomorrow’s senior portrait session. It’s crazy to think of this boy starting his senior year. Of all the years we have…well, been broke down? Hunting for a new part? Runnin’ on empty? Pick your metaphor, I don’t know. What I do know is this boy is strong as steel and tested as life. He has learned that machinery, technology—all of these whirling, alluring and endlessly appealing machines ultimately disappoint. They break down. But what comes through for you, time, and time again, it’s people. Hank is those people.

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