Jen's Column / Date Night

My husband Jay and I had a hot date on Saturday night. Well, it was a “hot date” if one entails the two of us holed up in his office while he organized some work and I copyedited an article. But, hey, we were alone and the kids were watching movies at the neighbors. So, yes, hot date.

Halfway through the evening, Jay ran to Panera to pick up dinner. When he returned, he popped his head in the doorway and said, “Let’s go. Date’s over.”

“What?” I said, confused.

“Van died.”

“What?

“We’re parked in the street.”

“Wha…?”

Outwardly, I may not have been very articulate. But inwardly, my stream of consciousness went something like this: How are we supposed to get home (&*%/$#%!) and is a tow truck more expensive on weekends (&*%/$#%!) and this is why we need a second car (&*%/$#%!) and we’ll never get a rental on Sunday…

By the time we got outside, I was rifling through my inventory of “People to Call In Emergencies.” Lisa was at a benefit. LaNae was in Scottsdale. Sara and Mitch moved to Green Bay a year ago. (Still can’t bear to move them from the list.) The night’s babysitters, our neighbors Bethany and Doug, appeared our best bet. It was in their best interest to save us, after all. They were stuck with our kids if we didn’t make it home.

Though the van had started sputtering at the corner of Second and Broadway, Jay’d been able to limp it down the block and around the corner to the post office — where he managed to parallel park (if you can call it “parking” when your vehicle is 10 feet from the curb and roughly 2 inches from the car in front of you).

“Listen,” my husband said, inexplicably calm. “I’m going to walk to get some gas. The gauge says we’re OK, but I want to cover our bases. You stay here in case the police come by and wonder why we’re parked like we’re drunk. And don’t eat my sandwich.”

As I sat in the dark waiting for Jay to return, I did the first thing that came to mind — which is also the first thing I did when my ’84 Cougar broke down in college. I called my dad.

For the next 15 minutes, I listened with growing horror to the potential causes, necessary repairs, and skyrocketing costs of our automotive ailment — in addition to a well-versed diatribe on why we should really buy a Buick. (“Never breaks down. Great gas mileage.”)

Jay returned and emptied a gallon of gas into our tank. He turned the key; I filled the silence with mournful chatter.

“How are we going to get up north for Thanksgiving?”

Whrrr… whrrr… whrrr…

“This is going to cost us a fortune.”

Whrr…whrrr… whrr…

“It really is. My dad said so.”

Whrr… whrr… whrr…. Bingo! Ignition.

Jay pulled tentatively onto the street, the van moving in fits and starts as I gasped and groaned in harmony. We hobbled into the SA at Seventh Street, and took a chance by killing the engine as we stopped at the pump. “If it doesn’t start again, at least the tow can hook up easier here,” Jay said.

But that would be unnecessary. Jay filled our 20-gallon tank… with 20.103 gallons of gas. Either SA was cheating us, or we’d discovered the culprit. Our gauge was broken. We were out of gas. Who’d’ve thought that would be something I’d add to my list of “Thanksgiving blessings” this year?