We left off in Mullica Hill, NJ with a full truck and trailer and 450 miles to go. I stopped at a WaWa in New Jersey to fill up the truck and my stomach, and while doing my routine check around the truck and trailer before jumping back on the road noticed I had a trailer light out. It was 8:30 and a quick Google Maps search showed that I was 20 minutes away from the nearest auto parts store, an Advance Auto off the first exit into Delaware, and they closed at 9pm. I jumped in the truck and pointed it east and made it just in time. My fantasy football draft had just started, and here I was in Advance Auto grabbing a set of trailer lights and making my first pick from the store just before checking out at closing time.
I always keep a decent assortment of tools with me on trips for just this reason. I parked under a light in the parking lot, had my ESPN fantasy app open sitting on the fender, the light I needed and the tools I needed to replace it. I was in an unfamiliar place, in the dark, trying not to miss my draft picks, tools out, truck open, with my head on a swivel. Then it happened. The first rusty bolt in my old taillight was just spinning, rusted free of its thin sheetmetal cage inside the light. Then the second thing happened. I had one eye on the road and saw a vehicle pass the plaza, slow down, turn around, and head right for me. I resigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t making it home to see my family. Someone was going to kill me and take my truck, phone, wallet, car, and dump me in the Delaware river. My anxiety level was over 9,000.
Up pulled a very inebriated man. “What kinda car is that? I could tell from the road it ain’t a 57 Chevy” he slurred from his battered Ford Explorer window. Anxiety level dropped a tick. Then he shut his truck off, awkwardly stumbled out, and I was right back to freaking out inside. And worrying about how I was going to get a taillight working. AND still focused on not getting stuck with crappy players for my draft. This dude was absolutely hammered, reeking of alcohol. Complete should-not-be-driving-shitfaced-how-is-he-even-awake drunk status. What does dude do? He plops his drunk ass on my trailer fender and starts asking me about the car. I’ve always been a big “cool cars bring people together” person, but this was a very new experience for me. Where is it from? What engine? Where am I heading? Mind you I still don’t trust this dude, who is now making himself at home in this dark parking lot, on my trailer, very close to my personal space.
I keep my phone and tools as close as possible, lock my truck, and proceed to get back to work. All the while my soundtrack is the musings on the life gone sideways of a hopeless alcoholic. I break the other bolt off and get a story about how he can’t keep a job. I hammer the light to pieces to access the other spinning bolt and hear about how his wife left him for his buddy from work and how they had cheated on him while he was at the bar – repeatedly – as he was always at the bar. I dug around for something to remove that bolt while he kept rambling. By the time I dug out a hacksaw blade to cut this damn bolt we had moved on to his kids not wanting to do anything with him because of his alcoholism. Finally with the albatross of this stupid bolt lifted from my neck, I was free – between draft picks – to put the new light on. Thankfully that was extremely straightforward because I don’t even know what we were on by now, but god damn this dude’s life was such an alcohol fueled trainwreck. I’m not going to rag on anyone for their demons, I have plenty of my own, but man I felt for this dude and just wanted to ask if he ever tried to get help or stop drinking as his life fell apart around him.
Finally with the albatross of this stupid bolt lifted from my neck, I was free
-me, that strange night in Delaware
By the time 10pm rolled around, I was done. I flipped on the lights to test, my new drunk friend confirmed that we indeed had functional taillights and I could clean up all my tools. I really wanted this guy to just go to sleep in his truck in that parking lot, but we bid farewell and he hopped in and weaved off. I didn’t even think to call the grab DUI number on him at that point, I just hope he didn’t kill anyone on his way home. Finally, I was ready to point the truck toward home. I was tired, had some caffeine ready to go, emotionally drained from the anxiety and the rollercoaster of emotion of my new friend’s story, and I still had 420 miles to go.
Keep an eye out for Part 3 of the Wartburg Saga next week!
Patrick
