We were too old, flat-chested, and boring to be real Girls Gone Wild, even if we had wanted. Besides, this happened in the days when college students, not under-chaperoned high schoolers, comprised the spring break crowd, and the future infamous videos were still male fantasies. We were four exhausted, mid-twenties, friends since childhood, working women looking for a sunny beach on which we could leave our real lives behind for a few days.
Well, I was looking forward to sun and fun; I discovered later that my vacation mates were more interested in catching up on soaps.
Since my air-conditioned car still smelled moldy following an unfortunate dip in the river and an insufficient supply of air circulation during the drying process we decided to take the second-newest car on vacation - Friend 1's (to become F1 for the duration of this post) un-air-conditioned Nova with black interior. It seemed reasonable enough as long as we scheduled driving time to exclude the hottest parts of the day. Seriously, though, there are no NOT SCORCHING times on a drive from Kentucky to Florida in August.
The two hour detour AAA had mapped on our long-cut triptik made the total driving time fifteen hours; we could work around those nine sunny ones. Friday evening, after work and school, we crammed the trunk with a week's worth of clothing and food, and headed out (not south, because of the detour), deciding to stop for dinner somewhere along the way. We giggled and planned the first hour. I wanted to see the two-story nightclub with the clear floor between levels. F2 had her heart set on the dog races, which interested none of the rest of us, and F1 and F3 coordinated their television schedule.
The Nova blew a rear tire about an hour before we reached the state line, where we had also planned to find the closest restaurant and stop. White-knuckled and screaming, F1 handled the bucking car like a pro. She dodged traffic and cruised to a halt in the emergency lane without killing anyone or losing her voice. When able to breathe again, we poured out of the car to unload the trunk and retrieve the jack and spare.
After each of us had pounded and jumped on the lug wrench multiple times with F1 screeching about stripping nuts, and we stood on the side of the road and recited every cuss word we knew, we admitted defeat. The lug nuts were apparently satisfied in their current positions and did not intend to let us disrupt them. In concert with F2's first tear, help arrived. Two guys on motorcycles broke away from their pack and pulled in behind us.
With smiles and bravado, they promised to have us back on the road in no time. I am sure they meant that promise, but the lug nuts wanted no part of it. Our embarrassed rescuers came to an agreement through a series of eyebrow raises, head jerks, and twitches and made an offer. If we stayed in the emergency lane, drove as slowly as possible to the service station at the bottom of the next exit ramp, they would follow to make sure we made it to a service station.
They helped us load everything back into the trunk and wished us luck, again communicating a silent message to one another with their eyes, this one a bit unsettling from my perspective. F1 followed their instructions. Soon, we thumped across the service station parking lot and stopped on the side of the building, out of the way of other customers. We thanked our friends for seeing us to safety, but they were with us for the duration. One helped unload the trunk again while the other went inside with F1 and returned with a special tool, guaranteed to work on belligerent lug nuts.
The bigger of the two squatted to remove the flat while the other supervised and flirted with F2. When big guy announced he was ready for the spare, the scrawny one took the special tool from his hand and placed it in the well of the opened back door while his friend pulled the tire out. Two service station employees charged from the building, trampled our bags and groceries, and accused the motorcycle guys of trying to steal their special tool.
Within seconds, what seemed to be the entire male population of the small town came to help the service station employees protect the tool that one had already used to do a special job on big motorcycle guy's face. F2 and F3 ran across the road to use a pay phone. F1 stood behind the car and screamed. I had no fist-fighting experience and no real death wish but could not watch this town of fools kill two nice guys without at least putting forth my best effort to stop them.
I mostly got in the way of the men who would not hit a skinny, hysterical female, but did throw a couple of good punches before jumping on the a service station employee's back and pummeling his ears until the police arrived. Our trampled luggage and groceries saved us a trip to jail. After much pleading and explaining on our part, and blood from Big Guy, one officer persuaded the others to believe we had not planned to leave our things behind and drive away on three tires with their special tool. Two police officers stayed behind to watch us replace the tire and reload the trunk.
When we had finished, he wasted good breath telling us to get out of town and stay out, as if we had not each remapped the return trip in our heads to avoid ever passing that place again. Since we had not eaten, we followed our motorcycle heroes to the Renfro Valley Bluegrass Festival and spent the next three hours eating corn and various animals the event coordinators had cooked in pits and on spits, apparently for days. Bleeding guy tended his face, my friends had a few beers, we strolled through acres of fiddlers, banjo pickers, and singers, and I did my best to follow a couple of patient partners through simple square dances.
Four hours behind schedule, we returned to the car. My sober status made me the designated driver. F2 volunteered to ride shotgun, talk non-stop so I wouldn't doze off, and to keep me supplied with fresh Dr. Peppers. F1 and F3 slept in the back seat. As we crossed into Georgia, F2 remembered another construction area and detour and fumbled unsuccessfully through the glove compartment in search of directions.
We woke F1 and F3, searched the car, and then unloaded the trunk, finally deciding the missing triptik must be on the ground at the service station. With no desire to return, even if they hadn't run us out of town, we found another service station in another small town that felt far too familiar, and bought a new map while exercising our most gracious characters. This map did not come with documented detours and prose directions for avoiding them.
By morning rush hour, I had driven into a construction area that added the sixth extra hour to our drive. Someone else got our reserved suite with the kitchen. We ended up in a single room at the low end of the strip. Lucky for my friends, the room came with a television. With the easy part of the trip behind us we fell across the beds for a much needed rest . . .
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