The changing of the tires

The lovely miss sarahk has a post up about girls changing tires. I, for one, am very glad that I learned how to change a tire – even though I rarely drive these days, living where I do. Her post reminded me of this insane old post of mine about my first time changing a tire. Well, the post is about way more than that … but of course, as with every story I tell, some small event like changing a tire is surrounded by an entire emotional context. So I thought I’d share the story again.

My first boyfriend and I bought 2 vehicles together but I never felt like the vehicles were mine, in any way/shape/form. I was too young.

The first car we bought together was a used Nissan 300 ZX. It was GOLD, as well. A ridiculous car. It was so low to the ground you basically had to lie down on the pavement to slide your way through the door. We would zip up and down the highways of the Northeast Corridor in our small gold bullet, blasting our GEEKY music, going from 0 to 60 in 2 seconds flat. A dumb car.

Then we started planning for this massive 2-month jaunt across the country. From Philadelphia to San Fran. He and I were not just taking the trip across the country for fun, we were in the process of actually moving out to California – so all of our stuff had been shipped to the new digs in San Fran.

We bought a used Westfalia, had our furniture shipped across the country to meet us in San Fran, and took off. We lived in that van. We cooked in it. We drove it across mountain ranges, through deserts, past slick rock, over bridges, across the plains, through the cornfields of Wisconsin. It is an amazingly hardy vehicle. We would have these “Easy Rider” moments, at some campsite, with a flickering camp fire, and coffee brewing in a pot inside the Westfalia, the blue flame of the stove trembling through the dark. Or sipping scotch in the twilight, out of blue tin mugs.

And then we got to Death Valley and one of our tires exploded. Literally. It exploded into shreds on the hot pavement. We careened off to the side of the road. It was the kind of landscape which glimmers, as though it is water, and I kept thinking I saw liquidy lush green fields up in the distance. My first experience with desert mirages. Boyfriend changed the tire, then we had to buy a new tire which caused us to run out of money a month ahead of time.

So we cut off the rest of the trip, and careened up the coast of California to San Fran.

We lived in San Fran for a bit, and everything was going south fast, and I do not like to think of that time.

But back to the van: I remember that perhaps one of the proudest moments of my ENTIRE LIFE was when I successfully parallel parked that clunky stick-shift van, on one of those precarious hills. It took me 25 minutes, I was in a panic, a sweat, I thought I would lose control and plummet down the hill to my death, that something would snap, that the clutch would go, that complete and utter disaster would ensue. When I finally got that van into its spot, I had a small private moment of pride. I DID it.

A month later, the relationship shattering around us, I moved to Los Angeles (no friends there, no family – not like now when pretty much everyone I know lives in LA – I had no support system, nothing). I took the van with me (all of my stuff was in the van – I had furniture, and filing cabinets, and boxes and boxes of books – all packed up in the van).

It was a confusing chaotic time. I moved to LA, one of my old college flames (pre-first real boyfriend) hooked me up with a friend of his aunt who let me stay at her place for free, while I got my act together (which looked like it was going to be a pretty big job. I was a wreck). She lived in Woodland Hills – a woman I didn’t even know – but she let me stay in her house. Woodland Hills was like the 8th circle of hell. I knew nobody in Los Angeles.

I got temp jobs in random offices, and I would show up for work driving the battered Westfalia, filled with my furniture from Philadelphia. I would pull into the parking lot of random office buildings in that dusty beat-up VAN. Quite a spectacle I was.

Meanwhile, I was pretty much having a nervous breakdown, WHILE staying at a stranger’s house, who would cook nice little dinners for me, and expect polite chit-chat. This was not like I could hang out by myself and lick my wounds. I was spending all of my time with a stranger, and she would say things like, “So where did you grow up?”, just trying to be nice … but meanwhile, I was carving lines into my wrist late at night, and trying to remember how to breathe. I’d show up at her little dinner table, with a bandage on my wrist, and be like, Holy shit, what have I gotten myself into?

I got my first flat-tire on some shriek-y terrifying freeway. I was headed “home” from my temp job, so I had on my little temp outfit. Heels, tight skirt, white blouse, etc. Boyfriend had always been the “I’ll change the tire” type, although I had stood by and handed him tools many a time. Without him, I had to figure it out on my own. I did so – beautifully. I jacked up the damn VAN, it was a VAN!! – on the side of the freeway (I felt so conspicuous – everyone has these little zippy cars, and I was like some reject from a commune, wandering down the 405) – and changed the tire. I felt like the most successful and triumphant woman on the planet.

The next day, I got my second flat-tire. I changed the tire as deftly as an old pro. Although I was near tears the entire time, because everything felt like it was falling apart.

But still. Having changed the tire the day before, this second time was a breeze. I knew just what I was doing. Good feeling.

Two weeks later, I was driving in Woodland Hills, in a state of anxiety and mania that I have rarely been in (thank Christ) in my life. I had called a suicide hotline earlier that day and said, flatly, “I don’t think I am going to make it through today.” I meant it. I had scars on my wrists. They said, “Come on over to talk to someone.” Uhm, you’re telling a suicidal girl to get in her car? Okay, Woodland Hills Hotline. If that’s how you do things in the Valley.

I obeyed. Got in the van, and started driving. Breathing in, out, in out … If I could just get to the Crisis Center, I knew I would be okay. And as I approached a stoplight, I put my foot down on the clutch and I felt something pop. It was a very small deep-down snap, within the belly of the van – and immediately I got this cold feeling all over: Oh God. That sounded BAD. This is BAD.

(I was broke. I was living with a strange old woman. I had broken up with my boyfriend. I had no friends.)

Various and sundry insane moments followed. I’ll just tell you the facts. My van came to a stop, everything grinding down in a horribly silent way.

— I abandoned the van at a stoplight, in the middle of the road, somewhere in Woodland Hills, and as I walked away, I kept turning to scream back at the van: “FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU” like an escaped lunatic. I knew I would not have the money to fix whatever BAD thing had just happened. Being without a car in Los Angeles is, of course, unthinkable.

— Two cops saw me standing in the middle of the crowded street, screaming at my own vehicle. They pulled over and basically made me get into their squad car with them

— They told me they would call a tow truck. I leaned over the back seat into the front (I am lucky they didn’t Taser me) and said, right into their faces, defiantly, “I have NO MONEY. None. NONE.” I was yelling at two members of the LAPD.

— They tried to calm me down. “We’ll work something out for you. It’ll be fine, ma’am. Do you want some water?”

— The tow truck arrived. Meanwhile, my abandoned van was causing a ruckus in the traffic. Car horns, logjam, people shouting and carrying on. I stalked over to the tow truck guy, said not a word to him, I was wild-eyed, nuts, in a panic, (not crying) and I just showed him the inside of my empty wallet. I held it open and shoved it up at him, like: Look here, guy, ya ever see anything as empty as this WALLET? What are you gonna fuckin’ do with THAT? I had this crazy grin on my face, too, daring him to turn me down, bandaged wrists up in his face. (I don’t think I’ve ever been so publicly out of control as I was during these 20 minutes.)

— So Tow-Truck man, like the cops, realized I was having a breakdown, treated me calmly, and gave me a tow for free.

— Dropped the STUPID van off and then had no way to get “home”, no way to get back to the strange house with the strange old woman. So I walked home. It was a 45 minute walk.

— On the way home, suddenly it was as though my brain started working again, it was as though Sheila reappeared to take the reins from this imposter, and I thought: “What. The Hell. Am I DOING???” Sense returned. I could see my life, I could see how unhappy I was, and I could see that I actually could do something about it.

— I stopped at a pay phone on this interminable walk home, I still remember how the sun was beating down, how I shielded my eyes to see the numbers on the phone, and called my friend Jackie, collect. She was living in Chicago, and having a great time, acting in shows, doing great – and I spontaneously called her (I was sobbing by this point – I think I had been crying nonstop for 2 weeks anyway, so what’s the difference) – anyway, she picks up the phone, she hears my voice and gets panicked, and I launch into it: “I’m going to move to Chicago as soon as I can – as soon as I can get the hell out of here … can I stay with you there until I get back up on my feet again?” I was crying. Jackie started crying, and shouted, “Of course you can! Come!! Come as soon as you can!!” Life-saver. Jackie was a life-saver in that moment.

— I immediately became a whirlwind of desperate activity. My tears stopped. I was too busy. I sold off most of my stuff. This kindly strange woman let me keep a bunch of furniture and boxes in her garage until I was ready to send for it (who WAS this person?? Her random kindness to me still sort of blows me away.)

— I had had to reluctantly call the now-EX-boyfriend in San Francisco (who was already dating someone else – hence, the meltdown…) and ask him to pay for the repairs on the van. Which were going to be 600 bucks. Oh, it killed me to ask him – but he agreed to pay for it. He could afford it, he was making massive amounts of money and I was sitting in a room in Woodland Hills, nibbling on Pretzels for dinner.

— I also had to ask him: “Once the van is fixed – can you put an ad in the paper up there to sell it? And can I use that money for a plane ticket to Chicago?” Ahem – ask for much, Sheila? But that was the only way I could see I could get out of there. I knew it was asking a lot … but we had been through a lot … and I would have done the same for him. He and I were both hurting. I don’t want to make it seem like he was blase. The breakup was wrenching for both of us. He agreed to put an ad to sell the van in the paper up in San Fran.

— The van was sold – unseen – and I then was free. I drove up to San Fran to drop off the van, to pick up my money, to buy my plane ticket to Chicago, and get the hell out of dodge. To save my life. Boyfriend and I spent 4 or 5 days in San Francisco before I left, having dinner, reminiscing, breaking into tears, saying goodbye. It was torture. But we needed to do it. Then there was a black-paper silhouette, and then I was gone!!

— Literally only a month later, I had found my own apartment on the shore of Lake Michigan, a tiny one-room apartment, but my own, my own place. I still had leftovers from the sale of the Westfalia, and used it for the security deposit.

— It took me about 4 months for my head to stop spinning, and for me to calm down. By then, I had already met M.,, he was one of the first people I met in Chicago, and we launched into our years-long sexy grumpy relaxing undefinable relationship.

The Westfalia was the last car I ever owned, and it was pretty crucial – for all of the reasons I just described. In the end, even though it was a huge pain in the ass, it allowed me to get out of LA as quickly as possible, and enabled me to get an apartment almost immediately.

However, I also should say – that the boyfriend was crucial as well. He didn’t want to pay the repairs, but I basically told him he had to. And he did it for me. Without the van being repaired, it never would have been sold, and it would have been much more difficult to move to Chicago.

So I have him to thank as well. Moving to Chicago pretty much changed and saved my life.

Whenever I see pictures of the Westfalia, and my boyfriend and I, cooking over the fire, me with a bandana around my head, he pouring coffee, drying our clothes on a line we had strung up – whatever – I always end up thinking of Chicago. First, I think of me flipping out on that random busy intersection in Woodland Hills, I think of the kindly cops who tried to calm me down, I think of how odd it was that during our whole trip we had no idea that we actually were breaking UP as we drove across the country, we really thought we would be starting a new life together in San Fran, but after the Westfalia tire exploded, it became quite clear what had been going on all along … But most of all – when I see pictures of that Westfalia I think of my eventual blessed escape to the Windy City.

It was a good van. It really was. It was yar.