Most know that I have had a heck of a time with my transition and I haven't even moved to the city yet, nor have I started my new job.
After spending a couple of days on Kentucky Lake, Ryan and I departed for Washington, D.C. early on July 6th. After three hours of driving, I was roused from a hazy, open-mouthed car doze when Ryan asked, “Jessica, why is your battery warning light on?” Having no idea, I flipped through my mental library of Car Talk hoping to think of a reason. I stared confusedly at the instrument panel for a few moments until my eyes lazily shifted to the temperature panel. The car was overheating.
When we realized something was seriously wrong, Ryan pulled to the side of the interstate. He noticed that the steering was tight, but thought perhaps it was the terrain. We sat for a moment as the rain rapped steadily on the windshield.
After inspecting the car, we continued off of the highway, the car being cooled by a bottle of Dasani we dug out of the trunk. Our inspection revealed the loss of air conditioning, power steering, all coolant, and battery power.
I obtained a business card for Steve’s Auto Wrecker and Salvage from a kind woman behind the counter at the Texaco station off of exit 415 in Tennessee. She promised he did good work and wouldn’t screw us. So, I dialed his cell phone. Chalking it up to a lousy connection, I yelled out our problem and location into my phone, but couldn’t make out a word he said, only “I’ll be there in five minutes.” Sure enough, five minutes later, a red wrecker pulled into the lot.
While shouting to Steve, Ryan was approached by a young guy who overheard our auto troubles.
“Does that guy know what he's doing?” He asked Ryan.
“I have no idea.”
“Well, I know this guy that lives down the road, his name is James Ward. He specializes in foreign car mechanics…VW, Audi, Porsche, Ferrari… I can’t remember his phone number, but he’s in the book.”
It wasn’t a lousy cell phone connection between Steve and me. Steve had the most bizarre Tennessee accent I had ever heard. It sounded like he was speaking a foreign language. As my father already diagnosed the problem, I alerted him to the broken belt. Steve then reached his hand under the hood and ripped out the belt. “Dry rot.” I understood him that time. After a few phone calls, Steve found a replacement belt 65 miles away. There was no way to get it before the day’s end. Steve loaded our car onto the wrecker (oh yeah, we were in the car) and he started to drive us to his garage.
Our view from the car:
During the trip, Steve called me from the cab of his truck and told me his guy wouldn't fix my car (it being a 1997 Passat - the most difficult car on earth!) so we were stopping at a friend’s house. Minutes later we arrived at a house on the lake with a yard filled with cars. Four Ferrari’s, a couple of Porsche’s, an Audi, a VW, and two Jaguars. Enter James Ward.
James would fix the car. And, he would do so in the morning, after traveling 120 miles to get the necessary part, in the parking lot of our Super8 Motel.
When we were standing on the bed of the wrecker in James’ yard Steve turned to look at Ryan and I and proudly stated: “Dandridge, Tennessee is the second oldest town in Tennessee.” I liked Steve.
On our way to the Motel, Steve called me once again from the cab of his truck. But this call delivered no news about my car; it was simply a narrated tour of the town.
“On the right is the oldest house in town, built over 200 years ago, on the left, the most expensive house in town.”
“Wow, what a beautiful house.” I responded.
“Yup, it’s got 9 chandeliers that cost $60,000 a piece in there,” Steve said
“Gosh! Do you like that house”? I asked
“Nope.”
“No?”
“Nope. It’s too expensive for my taste.”
James Ward arrived at the motel around noon the next day with the replacement belt. He was confident and positive, but had no idea what kind of a day he was in for. Not only was it raining but my car, only built for a couple of years, has completely inverted mechanics. No wonder why Steve’s mechanic wouldn’t fix it. But without complaint James Ward determinedly worked.
After sitting in the hotel lobby watching ABC Family for 3 hours (a line-up of Full House, Step by Step, and that show with Steve Urkell)I looked up to see James shaking his head; the water pump was completely shot. He calls a guy and promises us a new pump by 3pm.James decided to take lunch and wait for the pump to come in. Before he leaves, he opens a newspaper and hands it to me, smiles, and walks out. I opened the paper to find a full spread about our very own James Ward: an exotic car specialist, classical guitarist and composer from Cocoa Beach, Florida. It's amazing what sort people end up in small towns like Dandridge, Tennessee.
By five o’clock, just about 24 hours later, we were back on the road with a new serpentine belt and a new water pump. About an hour out, I received a call from James. He wanted to know how the car was holding up.
