I discovered what it would be like to ride in one of those honking big trucks; the kind that other drivers fear.
Our Honda’s alternator decided to go on strike in the middle of a busy intersection. The weather was humid; with temperatures hovering in the high nineties. The location was in a toney part of Dallas, home to Mercedes, BMW’s and Lexus; Hondas – not so much.
My husband raised the trunk of the car and put on the flashers to let the drivers behind us know our car had stalled. I called Triple A and then we waited among a throng of honking cars. My better half and I entered into an agreement. He would not yell offensive pejoratives implicating the driver’s maternal birthright if I refrained from offering middle finger salutes.
Drivers in Dallas can pack heat, and carry machetes either of which would fit into the Coach handbags, de rigueur in that part of town.
The cars driven by steely-eyed society matrons eased around us.
Their expressions indicated we belonged with the tenant pig farmers on Downton Abbey. The only drivers who offered help were card-carrying members of Medicare. We wept with relief when the tow truck driver called to let us know he was minutes away.
As our car glided onto the platform of the tow truck, I chalked up the experience as an opportunity for personal growth. The first step into the truck reached my waist and I discovered my personal growth made it difficult to hoist my expanding derrière into the tow truck cab. My spouse, in no mood for niceties, reached up and gave my backside a giant heave into the tow truck. (Just like the pig farmers.)
My embarrassment melted into the cool air-conditioning. As for the gawkers; I did not give a rip.
I was heads above the traffic sitting in a big honking truck, the kind other drivers fear.