Tow Car Travails

Last night John said, “Well, I guess all the mishaps are over, and from now on it’s smooth sailing.” I’m not the pessimist in this group of two, but I wished he hadn’t said that.

So we’re driving along Route 81, headed for the Thousand Islands, when this couple in an SUV pulls along side of us, frantically signaling for us to pull over. A young guy in a blue golf shirt – thank you, young guy, wherever you are – and tells us our tow car is smoking something fierce. John jumps out to see what the trouble can be, and before I can trail behind him, he’s back for the fire extinguisher.

Seems our Brake Buddy system has been applying the brake in the car non-stop for over an hour, the brake linings are on fire, the inflator nipples have melted off and two of our brand new tires are likely ruined. We stand there and gaze in wonder. What in god’s name is the universe trying to tell us? Get out while you can? Get thee hence to a WalMart and apply for a job, you slackers? We look at each other and smile. It doesn’t get much more ridiculous than this.

An hour later, we pull into the RV resort, its own island in Lake Ontario. We make a call to Clive the Camel, as he introduces himself over the phone, and arrange for our crippled car to be hauled away and fixed. By Monday. This is Friday. We’ll see. Turns out Clive’s daughter works for the resort, and her boss, Paul, is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. While he regales us with other RV horror stories, his huge belly shaking with laughter, the very definition of jolly, I take note of the strong winds coming off the lake, and seeing a news clipping about the recent rescue of three, no-doubt-strong, men, I mentally decide kayaking is not for me. Not here, not now, no way. It may be a lake, but the damn thing has whitecaps.

Assured by Clive that we need not wait at the gate of the resort for him to pick up our ailing car, we leave the keys in the ignition and marvel at the Honor System of rural America, so missing from our New York lives. We drive the RV to our spot, not exactly on the water, but with a good view, and I settle in to housewifery, making giant sandwiches for lunch.

An hour later it dawns on us. The brand new barbecue we bought yesterday to make those lovely 2” steaks is in the trunk of the car. In fact, the steaks and some hot dogs are all we have to eat between now and Monday. Which is fine, because we have no way to cook them anyway. Looks like it’s going to be Oreos and wine for the weekend. (I’m keeping it a secret, but there’s a doggy bag full of broiled salmon in the refrigerator from my dinner last night, which hopefully, John has forgotten about. I’ll be sneaking out of bed at two in the morning to feed my grumbling stomach.)

(Unplanned Cost of Retirement so far: $15,102 + TBD by Clive the Camel.)
Betty