A Day in Danville

“Deep-sigh, Arielle, you’re-absent-minded-but-please-woman, maintain-some-sort-of-calm, cheery-demeanor as you whine your worries away.” The phone rings, Mr. B answers, though I was ringing to speak with his daughter.

 

“Good Morning, Mike speaking.”

“It’s not morning anymore, Mr. B.” Do I sound cheery enough?

“Hey, your right, Rel, Good Afternoon.”

“And to you…Oh, Mr. B, you’ll never believe what I just did.” A bit whiney, but still cheerful, I reckon.

“Alright, Rel, what won’t I believe?”

“I’ve filled my bloody gas tank with diesel.” Sitting on the trunk of my ambiguously purple car, rather my parent’s ambiguously grey car, I take a drag from the last of my Marlboro Ultra Lites.

“Ohh” Small amused, yet sympathetic chuckle from Mr. B, “Where are you?”

“I don’t know, sitting near a Route 66 fill-up station in Alderdon, Alkerton, not Auckland but somewhere in Illinois.” Thirty minutes from Hicksville, Twenty miles south of Poe Dunk, just down State Road 000, on the way to trailer trash Americana.

“You didn’t drive the car after the mistaken fill, right?”

“No, no I realized my blunder before exacerbating this bloody crisis, hey,” heavy exhale, roll my eyes, shake my head, feel, embrace, maul in my stupidity. “I threw the car into neutral and some of the local boys helped to push the poison filled vehicle a bit away from the station. The tow truck’s on the way, rah rah rah, the plan is to tow the car to the dealership, pump the diesel out and set me free. Though I reckon I could solve the issue with a hose, a bucket and a wee suck, but I suppose I shouldn’t take those chances with my parent’s ambiguously purple car.”

Mr. B.’s genuine and short chuckle, “Good thinking. I’ll let Rach know you called, she and Duncan are out running errands, and I don’t think they grabbed their phone. But I’ll make sure she calls you when they get home. Suppose you’ve learned ‘The Lesson of the Green Handle’ now, anyway. Hang in there girl.”

“Right on. Thanks Mr. B, talk to you later.”

 

Trunks of cars are not such bad places to sit; I bring my purple and green striped-sock clad legs to a half lotus and lean back on my rear windshield. I recall the advise of Rach and Dunk. They warned me against making the journey to STL sans my guitar, and I am now regretting my laziness. It just would have been one more trip inside to grab the ole beaten instrument. Looking though my very small handbag, in an attempt to find something to captivate my attention, I pull out my wee camera, take some pictures, want to be sure to document the blunder accordingly.

 

I decide to ring McKenzie to let him know the estimated delay of my arrival, and the reason thereof. McKenzie, quite aware of my absent mind, older-brotherly pokes fun. Still, he knows my buttons quite well, and avoids them by toning down the wit.

“I’m sure mom’s done something like this before,” he offers as support.

“Wow, Mac, nice attempt at making me feel better, but that’s just not doing it for me.”

“Ok, ok, don’t worry about when you make it into town. Just be careful and let me know when you start heading west again.”

“No worries, mon frere. Much love. Later.”

 

Still atop my trunk, leaning back on the windshield, I close my eyes, a nap isn’t such a bad idea at this point. I’m a bit sleepy, stayed up late last night at Ashin’s party. The air feels edgy warm, yet windy, a bit like tornado air. The day is grey, the conditions are perfect for an outdoor nap. I doze off for a bit.

 

Moments later, my father rings. I need to change the bloody ringtone on this phone. Apparently my brother is the leak. Daddio makes fun of me, but only minimally, then fakes sympathy. Words of advise, rah, rah, rah. The conversation ends. Rach and Dunk ring. I recall the incident, they laugh, reiterate how I should have brought my guitar, or at least my computer. I could, after all, work on the Rosetta Stone in my boredom. I laugh. Rach’s ever-so-helpful words of encouragement end the phone call.

 

I can see the tow-truck in the distance. Illinois is just as flat as Indiana. Fourteen miles of visibility in every direction, baby. It nears. The driver sees me sitting on my trunk, checks his clipboard, nods and pulls the tow-truck in front of my sick car.

“I’m the silly woman, who filled her car with diesel,” I offer as Hello.

“Hey, don’t worry, I dunit three times myself,” he twangily responds.  I am always awestruck by the difference in dialect…just two hours out of my hometown. I kindly smile at his confession, but quickly realize, he just said he has filled his tank three times with diesel by mistake. My goodness, I feel stupid enough for doing it once. Three times, really? I try to keep from exposing my surprise at his stupidity, but surely my eyelids, pulled by my eyebrows, rise, revealing a bit of my judgmental sentiment. Instead of my expression, he notices my empty box of Marlboros,

“Hey, we smoke the same cigarettes,” A twangy observation from my tow-truck knight.

I manage to prevent from laughing as I think, AND we both pump diesel into out cars.  Soul mates, yeah?  Surely!

 

I’ve never ridden in a tow-truck before. I climb in. In the front, it’s the same as any other truck, honestly I don’t know what I was expecting. We ride, all windows down, thirty miles east back to Danville. I fill with excitement when I realize that I have the opportunity to reread the ‘Guns Save Life’ signs, but then in a fit of even more enthusiasm, realize that the signs on the East bound side of I-74 are different from those I read heading west. In a series of short, black signs with simply-printed white painted letters, the first one reads, (1) “Society is Safer” (2) “When Criminals” (3) “Don’t Know” (4) “Who’s Armed”. Wowee, I smile, my tow-truck knight notices, and responds with his two-toothed smile. The next series of signs reads, (1) “Gun Control is” (2) “Race Control” (3) “Not Crime Control” (4) “And it’s Unamerican,” suppose I’m a bit un-American myself, as I don’t really even understand the second set of those signs!  (For more information on these inspiring signs, you can visit gunssavelife.com, dead set).

 

We exit into Danville. My knight warns me against blinking so as not to miss downtown Danville. I chuckle a bit, he seems pleased with his attempt at humor. After winding past a small town church, fast-food row, another town church, the post office, another church, and the very American variety of diners, we near the edge of this very typical – looking Midwestern oasis. We turn onto a four-lane state road lined with car dealership after car dealership; eventually we pull into Danville Honda.

 

My knight parks the tow-truck and I pay him the $70 fee, then I consider making a comment about how damsels in distress used to offer merely a kiss as gratitude to their knights in shining armor. But quickly fear that such a comment might manifest as flirtation, and then I may feel obliged to kiss this two-toothed fella and still pay the $70. Instead I offer a kind thank-you and a smile, then exchange the money for my pink receipt.

 

I enter the dealership. Everyone is strangely happy. Big toothy smiles on faces, wide-eyed and cheerful employees greet me. Apparently I am the only customer, and each of the employees is aware that I am the diesel damsel. I turn over my key, sign some papers, grab some free coffee and sweet bread. Then I make my way to the ever so comfortable waiting room. The blue and white floral print couch is wildly inviting. I slip my shoes off, place my coffee and sweet bread on the small end table, and curl up on one side of the couch. I pull my short skirt down to cover any inappropriateness, bend my legs, and half smile as my sleepiness consumes me.

 

On this grey evening in Danville, I awake as one of the employees gently taps my shoulder, “Miss Ballou, you car’s ready.” I slowly open my eyes, quickly realizing my location. Then turn to my attention to my left, and notice that someone has very kindly placed a wad of paper towel just under my drooling mouth. When afternoon napping, I often drool creating puddles of bad breath embarrassment. I pick up the paper towel, grab my handbag, slip my shoes back on, and stand up. I turn back and see an old man, sitting on the other side of that oh-so-comfy-waiting room-couch. He sits, all wrinkly and small, clad in running shorts, jacked up white socks with Nike tennis shoes, and an old light blue Illinois basketball t-shirt. His baseball cap sits low on his bald head. Old mate smiles, another gap-friendly smile, gives me two thumbs up and says, “Looking good, Pinky!”

 

I half smile from confusion, stumble a bit on my way out of the waiting room, then realize that I’m wearing pink underwear. Goodness knows how long old mate was perving on my sleeping, drooling, pink-underwearing self!

 

I pay the ridiculous fee for my ridiculous mistake. And when grabbing for my receipt, the strangely pierced, gelled and perfectly parted hair-styled, 15-year-old looking boy behind the counter slips me his phone number. Confused, I look at both documents, turn my head to the side and say, “Thanks?” Big-eyed, and repressing my laughter, I leave the Danville Honda dealership, just at sunset. My Day in Danville concludes!