Fun with tow trucks

27 Aug 2009

Driving south on I-880 from San Francisco to Alameda, we ran out of gas. I pulled over to the shoulder, turned on the hazards, and took a breath. I tried starting the car again, and was surprised to find that it worked. So I pulled out, and continued on, planning to get gas at the next exit. About a quarter mile later, it started coughing again, and I figured “Uh oh, this is really it”. Now, of course, there was no shoulder to speak of, and we were going uphill. The engine gave out completely, and I got as far to the right as I could, still blocking the lane entirely. Since we were right in front of an entrance ramp, a large traffic jam ensued. Most people were polite, pulling around us as I waved them by. I was considering my options as far as Triple A and the like, when I felt a bump, and then another. I turned around, and there was a man in a pickup truck repeatedly backing up and bumping into me. I waved him by, but he wouldn’t stop. I was getting worried for my safety (my sister was in the car also), so I decided the best thing to do was to call 911. Of course as soon as I did, he pulled away, and I couldn’t see his license plate. So much for him. The dispatcher told me he’d send a tow truck over and an officer in the meantime to check on me. No sooner had I hung up with him than a man tapped on the window, with a large Mack truck idling behind me. “I’m a tow truck on break,” he said. “I can give you a push to the nearest exit if you want.” This was a very generous offer, but I had to turn him down, since I already had an officer and a truck on the way. So I told him thank you so much for the thought, but I’ll be fine. No sooner had he pulled away, than a Triple A truck pulled up in front of me. Now I was confused. The 911 dispatcher had said the truck would be from Micky’s towing in Oakland. What was going on?

I was soon to find out. The Micky’s truck appeared next to me, and honked its horn loudly. It pulled up closer to the Triple A truck, and honked again. The Triple A truck skulked away. I, of course, was ecstatic. I had just witnessed a tow truck battle! Over the right to tow me! What a sight! Now the whole thing was worth it. I felt so proud, to be the subject of a confrontation between two grease-covered burly men with chains and pneumatic lifts!

Except that then the tow truck driver told me there was, by virtue of a state contract between the Highway Dept. and any service truck, a $175 fee for being towed off the freeway. This was an issue. I dropped a whole lot of money on fixing my dad’s car the other week, after a minor scrape that did some serious damage to the steering (although no one nor any property was hurt at all), so I didn’t really want to pay. Fortunately, the police officer arrived at the same time, and extremely kindly offered to push me off of the freeway. So, with my sister hyperventilating in the passenger seat and the Micky’s truck preceding us with flashing lights, the cop bumped and shoved our beat-up Nissan pickup all the way off of the freeway. From there, the tow truck brought us to a gas station. And when I asked him what we owed him for the tow (expecting to have to bargain down from $175, since he had essentially towed us), he said “Don’t worry about it”! I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.

And now it gets interesting. After shelling out $50 for a full tank of $3.15/gallon California gasoline, I got in the car, and was ready to head back to the house to rendezvouz with my aunt and uncle and head out to their purportedly-really-awesome friends’ house for dessert. “Don’t worry,” I said jauntily to my sister as we buckled up. “We’ll be home in five minutes.” Everything was just fine.

Just fine, that is, until I turned the key.

The engine sputtered.

It coughed.

But it wouldn’t turn over.

I was flabbergasted. The other night when I took this ancient jalopy out for the first time, we had had to jump it first, but since then I had been using it to drive back and forth between my aunt and uncle’s place in Alameda and my grandparents in San Francisco with no problems. I asked the gas station attendant for a jump. They didn’t have one. I asked security (we were in inner-city Oakland). They didn’t have one. So I called my uncle, who was on his way home from a late day at work, and he said he’d come by. So we waited. I tried cleaning the battery terminals with a cardboard coffecup thermal holder, but to no avail. That Nissan wasn’t budging.

Eventually, of course, he arrived, and we jumped the car with no problems, and drove home. So ended the saga.

It was a damn long night. We had to cancel the dinner plans, and were unable to reschedule them for tomorrow as had been hoped.

So it goes.