January 21, 2015

Places Your Mustang Doesn't Belong


In my short 24 years, I have been lucky enough to have had many fantastically fun and memorable experiences in my life. Trying to get my car towed from a 6'2" parking garage was not one of them.

To briefly recap my post on Monday: I wanted to go home last Friday, my car not so much. I cried like a big baby then ate crepes and tried to ignore it. Unluckily, ignoring my car did not make it forget that it was not working; I was still stuck Saturday morning.

So 8 AM Saturday morning, I called State Farm because like a good neighbor, I was told they would be there. And they were indeed every bit like a neighbor to me, just not the unrealistically helpful kind in the commercials. No, this was more like a real life neighbor, who comes over and drinks your wine and doesn't really listen to what you're saying or what you need.

And what I needed was a tow truck crew to come to my apartment building and to call me when they got there.

Now, State Farm got most of the details of my 8 AM request right. Except my address. And my phone number. And the fact that I needed a tow truck. Instead, when I called back an hour later to politely ask where my requested tow was, I was informed that he was at the wrong address but he couldn't call me because he had the wrong phone number.

Oh yeah, and he had a jumper cable, not a tow truck.

Now, I was pretty sure that unless this guy was going to use the jumper cable to pull my car out by hand (and that he had exceptionally strong shoulders), that this wasn't going to help. I had just gotten a new battery a month ago and I had not left my lights on; I didn't think the battery was the problem.

But, now with the correct address, the guy was already on his way so I decided what the heck, let's play this game. And it indeed was a fun 20 minute game of "maybe the 23rd time is the charm!" (The 23rd time turned out not to be the charm, in case you're wondering.)

So I called State Farm back and asked again if I could have a tow, this time with my best pronunciation. The lady on the line asked me a few questions and then told me yes, of course, and that she would call me back shortly and tell me who was coming and when.

So I hung up the phone and waited for "shortly" to pass. And it did, then a few more shortly's passed. And still no call. Finally, 15 shortly's and approximately two hours later, she called back and told me, "I'm sorry, I can't find anyone in the area with a tow truck that can fit in your garage." And then she stopped, because evidently that was that. No tow for me.

Which was a little discouraging. Did this mean I couldn't leave this apartment again? Should I start looking for new cars? Should I start dissembling my Mustang now so I could at least sell the parts?

Luckily for me, a State Farm supervisor presumably was able to break a few kneecaps because they called back 30 minutes later to tell me that they had found a suitably short tow truck. And frankly, you've never seen a more relieved girl than me, 45 minutes later, when I hopped into that tow truck and directed the tow-er to my unresponsive Mustang.

That is, until he said, "This is a pretty sh*tty garage, you know that? I'm not sure I can even get you out of here. Have you tried jumping it?"

By this point, I was finished with all reason so I didn't bother explaining that a guy tried that three hours ago. "Sure," I said, "Why not?"

I guess this is when God finally decided that he was amused enough however because for reasons I still do not understand, the car started this time. And when I took it to the Ford dealer that afternoon, no one knew what was wrong with it. It was working just fine.

So I'm not sure how to end this somewhat pointless story because I still really don't have an explanation for what happened. (Or, more specifically, what refused to happen Friday evening and Saturday morning.)

I guess it's just one of those things, like people who like Chef Boyardee ravioli: there are some things that are just not meant to be explained.