Roadside Assistance.

5 Feb

What’s cookin?

Me. That’s what’s cooking. Roasting, even. That odor you smell is the scent of my burning flesh; the boiling of my blood; the baking of my internal organs. The University of Iowa apparently doesn’t believe in air conditioning. I realize that it snowed bombs like Nagasaki up until just a week ago, but the weather has quickly improved, and the temperature rapidly increased. As a result, the buildings on campus have become smoldering kilns, threatening to broil anyone who dare go inside. I’m sweating.

On Friday, Cole, Kehly and I were watching a movie on the couch. I was enjoying some Teddy Grahams and milk while Cole fiddled with my cell phone. Moments later, he tosses my phone into the air, intending to drop it on my lap. Instead, it plops directly into my glass of milk that I was holding.

Yeaaap. It was out of order for a good 4 hours, but we got it fixed right on up. Thanks Cole.

Saturday was a turbulent night. We hiked it to Ames to celebrate Jamie’s 19th boythday. Upon arrival, Richard exclaimed that he had to show me his latest great buy. He opens a large cardboard box to reveal twelve 60-ounce bottles of St. Nick’s Eggnog. I am baffled.

“…Why the hell did you buy egg nog?” I ask.

“Because! They were a DOLLAR EACH!” Richard exuberantly replies.

“Okay, well why did you buy TWELVE of them?”

“Well that’s all they had left.”


“Do you even like eggnog?” I inquire.

“I don’t know, I’ve never tried it.”

That’s Richard for you.

After Richard, Zach, Kehly and I collapsed our lungs secretly inflating birthday balloons for Jamie in her vacant dorm room, several others joined us to surprise her with a dick themed birthday cake and our semi-intoxicated selves. It was a hit. After several cups of icy eggnog followed by dessert in the form of Hawkeye vodka, we charged toward the drunk bus to go to Katie’s.

At ISU, you have to show your university ID card or pay 50 cents to ride the bus. Since the majority of us were not from ISU and did not have 50 cents, this posed a slight speed bump in plans. Last time we refused to pay, there was a violent riot at the bus stop, and people assaulted the bus driver. He called the cops and everyone evacuated the bus promptly. This time we hoped for a better outcome. Richard and Jamie get on the bus and flash their IDs. I step up next, show my empty palms to the driver and say, “Uhhhh….”

“Go ahead, I really don’t care,” he says.

What an awesome guy. Kelli and I begin a chant on the bus that everyone joins: “THE BUS, DRIVER, ROCKS! THE BUS, DRIVER, ROCKS!” We later went up and shook his hand for being so amiable.

Soon enough we arrived at Katie’s to consume more alcohol. The night becomes a blur. I draw on myself in permanent marker. More specifically, I awoke to my right and left thigh labeled as such, a burger and a large wedge of Swiss cheese drawn underneath. I also punched a man in the mouth. Twice. It is important to note, however, that I was being a jackass, and this man really didn’t deserve physical assault, although he DID have a Mexi-stache, which I think is grounds enough alone for a good knuckle sandwich. You decide.

Late Sunday evening, around 8 p.m., Kehly and I begin our drive back to Iowa City. Around What Cheer, approximately 45 minutes from home, I exit the interstate to stop for gas. After meandering down a long, dark, winding exit ramp, I come to a stop sign. About a quarter mile to my left is a truck stop, and about a quarter mile to my right is a different gas station. “I feel like if I go to the station on the left, I’m going to get murdered,” I tell Kehly. I choose to go to the one on the left anyway.

After going through a ridiculous hassle to get gas (apparently you need a sherpa and a Bachelor’s degree to pump gas there), we make our way back toward the interstate. It wasn’t until I was actually on the entrance ramp that I realized something was wrong. “My headlights aren’t working, are they.” Kehly looks. “Doesn’t look like it.” I turn around and drive the wrong direction down the entrance ramp. Suddenly it appears that perhaps they are working. I turn back around and drive back up toward the interstate.

“They’re definitely not working. Awesome.”

I call my dad. He’s playing ice hockey. My mom suggests I call Triple A. I do. They tell me they can just tow me back home. I find this a little much for my headlights just working, so the dyke in me drives us back to the creepy truck stop to check the fuse box. After examining all the fuses, I find none blown. I call Triple A. The woman has a difficult time finding my location, and was perplexed that there was actually a town called “What Cheer” in existence. She tells me it will be about a half hour wait.

Kehly and I observe a 24 hour family “Pine Cone Restaurant” attached to the truck stop, which I uploaded a short video of in case you are interested. We decide to grab a bite to eat while we wait. Upon entering this restaurant, I immediately recognize scenes from horror movies. It is dark. There are telephones at every booth. There are dozens and dozens of creepy Easter bunnies with scary teeth looming over us. The restaurant is empty except for two fat truck drivers drinking coffee, huddled in the corner opposite of where we were seated. The lights were flickering, and there was one slow-moving fan overhead. Each booth’s seat was ripped and sunken in. On top of that, it had started to pour. Heavily.

We were going to die.

We order our food from an unnecessarily sweet lady who promptly serves us. The appetizer? Coleslaw. Classy. To our surprise, the tow-truck arrives much faster than we planned, so I stole a bottle of ketchup and we packed our food to go. I went out to greet the man. “Hello!” I say cheerfully. No response. I make other friendly small-talk comments. No answer. This man refuses to speak. I began to feel very awkward. Eventually he gets the car hooked up, and we pile into the front seat of his truck.

We were getting raped. I know all those gear changes were really attempts to touch my thigh. I wasn’t born yesterday.

Anyway, after an obnoxiously loud truck ride (it sounded like a Concorde jet) with no radio or conversation, we finally made it back to Iowa City safe and sound.

The Monday following was one of the more productive days I’ve ever had in my life. I started the day off by skipping my 12:30 lecture where attendance is mandatory. I went back to bed. At 1:50 I awoke again. My next class would be at 2:30. I opted to not go. Later I discovered that my 12:30 class had been canceled anyway because our teacher had strep. I love it when things go my way. I saw Drillbit Taylor with Jeremy, Kaleigh, and Amy, then hit up Pet Land and got pooped on by a rat I named Doris. All in all a piece of shit day. Nice.

This is so long. No one will read this. That’s okay.

“Fuck a horse, you fuck loser!”


One Response to “Roadside Assistance.”

  1. Jayme Tomlinson February 15, 2010 at 6:33 pm #

    One of my favorites!

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