Better Luck Next Time

My husband came back from Phoenix almost a week ago. He, along with half our state, went to witness what they hoped would be college football history, as Clemson, the number one team, battled Alabama, number two, at the National Championship game. Clemson has not won a national championship since 1981, so this was kind of a big deal in the college football world, especially here in South Carolina. This will be the extent of football references I plan on making for at least nine months, so if you are into that, enjoy it while you can.

I wanted to go to Phoenix too. We lived there the first year we were married, but it’s been almost twenty years since I’ve been there. January is the perfect time for a visit; it cures the seasonal affective disorder and it isn’t yet brain-roasting temperatures. Unfortunately, it was too expensive for all of us to go, and since I didn’t give a shit about the football game, it was decided I should stay home and take care of the teenagers and the cats and any other related caretaking items.

Just to be clear, it wasn’t my decision.

Thursday night before he left, my husband had to assess a small problem. It seemed my older daughter’s car was acting funny, not the ha-ha way, but the weird way. The interior lights flashed on and off, the radio stopped working, the nifty screen with all the information went black, and the battery warning light illumined. She suspected something was wrong with the battery or she had a poltergeist, but either way, she was scared to drive it.

When my husband came home from work, he went outside to check out the car. He drove around for about five minutes and declared the car, “Fine.”

E, my daughter, disagreed with him, as she normally does, and refused to drive it. So another decision was made. My husband would drive the iffy car to the airport in the morning for his 6:30 flight, and E would drive his car to school.

I didn’t have a problem with this decision.

The next morning, my husband awoke at four am to get ready for his trip. I slept through most of it, which for me is unusual. I am not the deepest of sleepers for the wee hours of the morning. I didn’t hear him leave, but at 5:36 am, I did hear my phone ring.

Him: My car fucking broke down.

Me: Where are you?
Him: Across the street from the fucking airport. Do you, can you come get me and take me to the airport?
Me: Did you call the airline to let them know you are running late?
Him: I can’t get the phone number.

Ok, let’s pause here for a sec.  That thing in his hand, that he used to call me, that is a computer too. It can find the airline phone number. It can also find Uber.

Me: Let me put in my contacts and I’ll be there soon.

Him: Hurry. I don’t want to miss my flight.

Ten minutes later, I’m in the car, pajamas, the first pair of shoes I found that did not involve tying, and my night guard still clenched tightly between my teeth. It was raining, and dark, and prime animals that dart in front of cars hour. I took the narrow, winding back roads from our house to where I assumed his car was. The rain picked up. I approached the QT gas station at the corner. In the middle of the road, at the red light, facing the entrance to the airport, was my daughter’s car with the hood open.

I turned into the gas station parking lot and instead of an animal dashing in front of me, it was my husband. He ran through the parking lot in his khakis and wool blazer, like OJ Simpson in the Hertz commercial from the 1970’s. I didn’t hit him, luckily, and just slowly followed him in my car, leaving some space as he got his suitcase and backpack out of the trunk. He dashed to my car and threw his stuff in the backseat.  The time was 5:46.

Me: Can you believe I heard my phone ring?

Him: No! I am glad you did. Thanks for coming to get me.
Me: How many times did you call me?
Him: Just once.
Me: That’s how lightly I sleep!

He just exhaled.

Me: Did you call the airline to let them know you had car trouble but are on the way?

Him: No, because I wasted all my time with the insurance company.

We don’t have AAA, but we do have roadside coverage through our car insurance. It’s pretty cheap, and apparently it gets you a tow truck with the same amount of waiting time as the competition.

Him: The tow truck can’t be here for another forty-five minutes, but get this…she asked me if I wanted to do a survey! At 5:30 in the fucking morning, while my car is broken down on the way to the airport to catch a 6:30 flight, she wants to know if I would like to answer a few questions! What the fuck? No, I don’t want to answer any of your goddamn questions! If I was in an accident and needed an ambulance, would she say, we will contact the dispatcher but first would you like to take a survey?!? Jesus people are so stupid! Can’t anyone think for them fucking selves anymore? Asking someone to take a survey when all they want is roadside assistance!

I realize that tirade has a lot of exclamation points. If there were a stronger form of punctuation to convey the anger and frustration with which my husband yelled, I would use it.

Me: Is that what you said to her?

Him: No I didn’t say that! Of course I didn’t say that! I just said something like ‘Look lady, I don’t mean to be rude, but I am kind of in a hurry here, so I don’t want to answer…’
Me: Your goddamn questions?
Him: Close enough.

In case you were wondering, he made the flight on time. My daughter felt validated. He enjoyed his trip. Clemson lost. The car is repaired. And I already told him that next year, if Clemson finds itself again in contention for a national championship, that I will be joining him in sunny Florida. We can even drive my car.