You’re Good To Go.
(… continued from previous post)
“I ran over a deer,” Shane said, shaken. “It was already dead but I ran over it.”
He didn’t realize it was a deer until he was nearly on top of it, and there was an 18-wheeler in the other lane; he’d had no choice but to go over it.
And now the car was making a squealing sound that it hadn’t been making before: a loud, horrific, rumbling, squealing sound.
Shane pulled onto the shoulder of the highway. We looked at the car: no visible damage. The tires were good (valve stems intact). On my belly I stared unbelieving under the car.
Nothing appeared to be wrong.
We squealed our way to a wider shoulder. We Facetimed Bill and looked under the car “together” – nothing. Blinkers flashing, going 20 in a 70 zone, we squealed a dozen miles to a gas station.
“Everyplace around here closes at 4:30,” said the woman working at Sheetz.
It was 4:35. On a Saturday. Nothing would be open on Sunday.
We called AAA, who recommended that we make a police report.
“Why?”
“Don’t you have front-end damage?”
“It doesn’t look like we have any damage,” I said. “We just want someone to tell us what’s making that sound!”
“We can only tow you to the nearest service station,” he said. “There’s one two miles away that’s open until 7:00.”
We could squeal another two miles. (So much for $$$ AAA.)
We finally arrived at an open service station.
“It’s gonna be awhile,” said the car guy. “We’ve got three cars in front of you.”
Bill had already searched for a hotel in the area; the entire (tiny) town was booked for the night.
“We’re probably going to be here for a week,” I told him. “Take your time.”
“Nah, we’ll get you in today,” he said.
Well, that was good news. Shane and I sat in the car and waited. And waited. And waited. Almost two hours later, the man took our car into the garage.
We decided to hang out at Dunkin’ Donuts across the street – but by the time Shane got a donut and coffee, they were done with our car.
“Oh no,” I said to Shane. “I forgot to tell him about the ants!” They were still swarming all over our car, and I was afraid he’d determined that the two issues were related – or worse, he refused to work on the car when he saw all the ants.
We raced back across the street from the donut shop. Our car was sitting, untouched. I looked around for the car guy who eventually reappeared.
“You’re all set!” he said.
I stared, dumbfounded. “I’m all set?” I repeated, confused.
“Yep, you’re ready to go!”
“What happened?”
“The bracket around the drive shift was pushed in,” he said. “When he hit the deer, he must have hit the bracket right in the center and knocked it in.”
He made a “popping” sound and demonstrated, his two hands smacking into each other.
“That was it?”
“Yep. I just popped it out for ya,” he said. “You’re good to go.”
Like the tire guy, he would not accept payment for such a simple repair. But that man saved us days of aggravation and rescued our trip. We arrived home at nearly midnight and plopped into bed.
And that’s when Bill went to work on the ant problem.
Three blocks of poison and 24 hours later, Bill had removed two nesting colonies of ants from inside my car.
Now we’re ready for the next college road trip.