by Carrie Brownstein

Monday evening, while driving home from Washington, D.C., with my dog Tobey, my car broke down. I had just crossed into New Jersey from Delaware, and I stopped at the John Fenwick service area off the turnpike. When I returned to my car — a late-'90s Volvo wagon — it would not start. The engine turned over, but the gas pedal wouldn't catch; I feared it was more than an issue with the battery. While families piled in and out of minivans and SUVs in the parking spots next to me, I pretended that everything was okay. I made phone calls, I walked the dog, I went back inside for a coffee. If someone looked over as I made subsequent attempts to start the engine, I averted my eyes.

Finally, I called AAA. The woman on the other end told me that AAA could not send help on a privately owned toll road, so she connected me to the New Jersey Turnpike Authority, who asked that I turn on my hazard lights so that I could identify myself to the tow-truck driver. Turn on my hazard lights? And be simultaneously pitied and ignored? No way! I opted, instead, to quietly flag down the driver when he showed up. This turned out to be the wrong move, because when the tow truck arrived, lights ablaze, it was like a gaudy party guest who didn't get the invite that the event was casual. By waving him down, I had to admit that I was the reason he'd showed up in the first place. People gawked and pointed.


Tobey in the cab of the tow truck as the Volvo is loaded on.

Jay, the towing guy, told me and Tobey to climb into the cab of his truck while he dealt with my car. Inside, he was blaring new country music at a volume I was certain was illegal for the genre. I heard a lyric about there not being enough Jesus in the world and, at that moment, I had to agree. Jay got in, and in between spitting his chew into a cup and explaining how he dislikes California even though he's never been, he told me there was a mechanic nearby who was open until 11 p.m. Off we went into the night.

A few miles later, we pulled into a desolate parking lot outside of a very obviously closed mechanic shop. The place was called Overhaulin'. I imagined leaving town the next day with the body of my Volvo and the engine of a Geo Prism. I placed the keys into the night-drop box. Whoops: I had forgotten to lock the car first. Jay assured me that Carney's Point was very safe.

Wait? Did he say Carney's Point? Was this where carnies lived in the off-season? Would I get to toss back Red Bull-and-vodkas while hearing about the seedy underbelly of county fairs? Might I learn the secrets to tossing baseballs into a tilted barrel or aiming a dart at a balloon? Alas, there just isn't enough Jesus, so, no, that didn't happen. We were on our way to Jay's hotel of choice for stranded turnpike travelers like myself: The Comfort Inn.

I know from years of touring that a Comfort Inn provides very little comfort at all, unless you find cracker crumbs and pubic hairs in your bed soothing. But I wasn't going to argue with Jay, who had already been very gracious. I checked into the hotel, thanked Jay for his help, and made my way to the room. As I expected, I was met with walls sprayed with various sticky substances in a rainbow of colors. As instructed to do by some television special I'd watched in horror years ago, I peeled back the never-been-washed comforter cover. God forbid I get pregnant from a filthy comforter cover and have to carry its picture in my wallet, pulling it out every time my kid asks, "Who's my daddy?"

 

Hungry, nowhere near a restaurant and without any wheels, I asked the receptionist if any local restaurants delivered. He handed me four different pizza menus. I picked the one with the most legitimate-sounding fake Italian name and ordered. For Tobey, who'd been out of food since we should have been back in New York, I got two cheesesteaks — one for dinner, one for breakfast — and asked them to bring only the meat. Without a computer, I was never able to look up anything about Carney's Point, but I can tell you this: It is home to a pizza that tasted like it was baked inside someone's ass.

Before going to bed, I set two alarms — my phone and the alarm clock near my bed. In the middle of the night, I was awakened by the alarm clock. It was screeching and horrid; I was certain the entire hotel could hear it. I tried shutting it off, and when the sound wouldn't stop, I frantically tore the plug from the wall. But the alarm was still wailing. Only then did I realize it was the fire alarm. I grabbed Tobey and wandered into a smokeless hallway in my pajamas. It was 4 a.m.

Three hours later, at a time I assumed most mechanics would be open, I began calling Overhaulin.' And I kept calling, every 15 minutes, alternating between dialing and eating the complimentary miniature cinnamon buns, until well past 9 a.m., when someone named Chris finally answered. An hour later, I called back to check and see if the problem had been diagnosed. It had: It was indeed the fuel pump, and it wouldn't be ready until tomorrow. Without any means of getting work done if I stayed in Carney's Point another night — and, by work, I mean writing, though I'm sure there is lots of "work" one could do in CP — I opted to rent a car and drive home. Chris offered to pick me up at my hotel. He told me to look for the Grand Prix.

Chris, who is mostly toothless and not balding so much as spawning more forehead, drove me to the neighboring town of Pennsville. There, we went to Penguin Auto Rental, a local company housed inside a used-car lot. The woman told me they had one car available: a 15-passenger van. Either I could pick up 14 hitchhikers or I could rent from somewhere else. We drove over to Enterprise.

Here is what I learned about Chris on our drive: He is both a recent widow (raising a 2-year-old and a teenager, which is why he can't get to work until 9 a.m.) and a guy who uses the term "colored people" when talking about his non-white buddies. He is also the man in charge of fixing my car.

I picked up a Chevy Cobalt from Henry at Enterpise. He told me where I could get coffee (WaWa) and gave me directions to a nearby state park (Fort Mott). I figured Tobey deserved some off-leash time in exchange for being my unwitting passenger and protector. He immediately ran into a swamp.


Fort Mott. A beautiful respite, until Tobey found the mud.

I finally made it home today at 3 p.m. But tomorrow, I have to return the rental and pick up my own car from Chris. My hope is that he didn't overhaul anything that didn't need overhauling. Is this a music blog? Well, I did listen to the radio in the Cobalt. Every time I hear "Hotel California," I can't believe how many guitar solos the Eagles got away with.

Now I know why people take the train on the East Coast.