(First published as a community column in The Huntsville Times on April 13, 2008)A burned out ignition coil on the last day of a beach vacation is a real buzz killer. Oh, and another thing: The nearest dealer was over 150 miles away in Montgomery.
But my sad tale of paradise interrupted ends well. For every “fix” there’s a “fixer.” Mine was a Diet Coke-swilling, chain-smoking, insomniac tow-truck driver named Keith.
After a tense afternoon on the phone, we’d finally found someone willing to make such a long trip on a Friday night. Keith was the man with the time, the truck and the insomnia for the job.
He came by his sleeplessness honestly. Keith was a retired Air Force tech sergeant who had built “tent cities” and wired them up in various exotic locales throughout Iraq and Afghanistan.
“We put up stuff that the Army couldn’t,” he boasted.
Occasionally, Keith even put in a swimming pool. You know those fly-boys and their creature comforts.
“Yeah,” he explained as he pulled a pack of Camels from his shirt pocket, “I only sleep about two hours a night anyway, so this is nothing. Mind if I smoke? I’ll keep the window rolled down.”
Well, actually I do, I thought. But you go right ahead, brother. There’s no way I’m denying you nicotine on tonight of all nights.
Off we went on our mad, moonlit dash up U.S. 331. He told me that he had just picked up his flatbed truck from the shop that afternoon right before he received the call to come get me. That didn’t exactly inspire my confidence. But that was only the beginning.
I saw that he kept lifting up his round, rimless glasses to look at his dashboard. Being an optometrist, I notice stuff like that.
“Yeah, I can’t see the damn dashboard anymore with these stupid glasses. My night vision ain’t what it used to be either. But as long as I can see the lines on the road, we’ll be fine.”
I’d heard that line before. I double-checked my seat belt and consoled myself with the thought that if we hit something, a 6-ton tow truck plus car would likely come out the winner.
We sped over Choctawhatchee Bay, past Eglin Air Force Base, through Florala, and onward and upward toward Opp.
The heart of the Deep South was beating out its familiar Friday night rhythm. Families gathered beside lighted baseball diamonds for early season practice, dimly lit, locally owned diners bustled with loyal patrons and elderly couples rocked on the front porches of ancient clapboard houses in one-stoplight towns.
I watched the lifeblood of a great nation flow by my passenger side window. I saw the workaday people who go about their tasks, earning their daily bread and caring for their families and neighbors with nary a complaint, forever faithful in the trenches. People sort of like Keith.
Depressed over the sound and fury of presidential politics? Then remember that regardless of who occupies the Oval Office next January, those same salt-of-the-earth souls will still be holding down the fort. Let that be a comfort to you.
Four hours after our odyssey began, we reached Montgomery and dropped off my car. By that time, Keith had polished off three Diet Cokes and four cigarettes, and shouted out his entire life story over the deafening roar of his diesel engine. He was clearly feeling the euphoria of “mission accomplished.”
“Hey, let’s go to Hooters! I’m buyin’!” he generously offered. Such is the bond that forms between the tow-er and the towed.
For the record, I politely declined. He agreed to drop me at my hotel instead. Although I had a reservation, he told me that he would wait around until I had my key.
I paid him his fee ($264 after AAA discount) plus tip. It occurred to me that it had been quite a while since I had received such fine service.
As I walked along the second-floor balcony toward my room, Keith spotted me, gave me a little salute and hit the gas. I stopped, stood at attention and saluted right back.
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