The Clackamas Print Page 9
Wednesday, April 26,1995
FEATURES
Friday the 13th and the case of the screaming Taurus
by Linda Barr Batdorf
Staff Writer
The day started
innocently enough.
After all, I’m not
superstitious. It
didn’t even occur to
me that it was Friday
the (shudder) Thir
teenth until I ran
screaming into the
rain, as I escaped
from my smoking ve
hicle.
But I get ahead of
myself.
It was the day I
would attempt to sign
up for Journalism, and as
usual here in the Beaver
State, it was raining. I
was already late register
ing, and had begged for
mercy from instructor, John
Knowlton. Kindly, after
playing the kind of phone tag
one has nightmares about, we
'actually spoke in personand he
agreed to let me sign up. But
being so late, I needed his signa
ture in order to do so.
It was during an hour and a
half break between shuffling my
children from school and back
that I planned to have just enough
time to run up to CCC, meet with
Knowlton, get his signature on
the registrar’s sacred document,
submit it, give them money and
fly like the wind back down the
hill in order to pick up my two
young sons from school.
' I simply could not be late. If
you have ever witnessed the sorry
sight of an eight-year-old and a
five-year-old, clutching book bags
and trembling lower lips because
the “Mom-mobile” drove up late,
after EVERYBODY ELSE AT
SCHOOL had gone happily
home, you would never in your
natural life, do it again. Spurred
on by images of office staff lock
ing doors and shrieking like the
wicked witch in the “Wizard of
Oz” I scurried up to CCC.
Just as I was making that cir
cular turn from 1-205 to the cam
pus highway, my car started to
scream.
Now, this was not just a “Hey,
BORDERS
this feels great to be taking a tight der the hood. “Crunch, thunk,
comer,” kind of a scream. It was ....thunk....CRINK!” and a big,
a “HELPPP!!! HELP-P-P-P!!! necessary part of my vehicle
My little automobile innards are blithely bounced under my car
hemorrhaging! My vehicle ven and probably into the grill or the
tricles are exploding! I’m about gaping mouth of the terrified
to detonate, erupt, burst, spout, driver behind me.
rupture and smatter my precious
Then the smoke started pour
and terribly expensive car parts ing out.
all over the freeway!!!” kind of a
My heart skipped a beat as I
scream.
imagined the headlines, “CCC
So, I screamed right along student attempts to sign up for a
with my automobile as we bel journalism class, gets barbecued
lowed and smoked our way up the instead.”
hill. I was not about to pull over
At any rate, after turning my
as long as my car still had an emergency blinkers on and
\ ounce of life left in her. There screaming our way into the park
are no phones on that hill, just lots ing lot, my car and I found the
of huge trucks whose often unruly closest, safest spot to finish our
drivers probably like to drive on burning. I pictured wild flames
the shoulder and honk at small bursting through the dashboard at
cars in an effort to give the driver any minute as I pulled into a
a coronary. I was directly behind handicapped spot near the bus
one of these trucks with one of stop.
those drivers and the water from
Before I did so, I made a spe
his monster semi-truck wheels cial note that all of the other
gave me the distinct impression handicapped spots were empty —
that I had aimlessly meandered and I didn’t much like the idea of
my auto into a car-wash from hell. becoming a human PopTart in my
About this time - and this is the Taurus, so I crept the car in and
truth - I heard a large piece of jumped out. I stood in the driv
metal crunching and flipping un ing rain for a few moments, just
ARENDT
waiting for the
smoke to subside, but
it didn’t. I gently
lifted the hood and
turned on my emer
gency flashers, so
that any wandering
police officers would
know beyond the
shadow of a doubt
that I was going to
move my car as soon
as humanly possible.
Since it was raining,
my car was smoking,
I was shaking and
had already become
the butt of cruel jokes
by passersby, I
thought it best to get
away from the smoke
and fury, go inside
the Community Cen
ter, call my husband,
inform Knowlton of
my plight, and col
lapse over a fish
sandwich until my
husband arrived to
save the day.
My errands finished
and with fish sand
wich and hot coffee
in hand I sat down in
the cafeteria to try
and stop twitching.
When I went back
to my wounded auto
mobile, grateful that
I had remembered
my umbrella, Alan
was there beside the
car, holding a white piece of pa
per with a puzzled look on his
face.
“Neat,” he said, “...you got a
ticket for parking in a handi
capped zone.”
“How could I?” I shrieked,
“the hood was up, there was
smoke pouring — not oozing or
spurting or fluffing, — but POUR
ING out from this engine-y thing
and my emergency flashers were
on! How could I risk life and limb
to park in a safe place and blah,
blah, blah...”
“Neat,” he said again, his en
tire body now soaked by the down
pour we were standing in.
“You got a ticket. Well, that’s
just fine.”
It seems a patrolman had
gone by (the one who put the
ticket there) and explained to
Alan that we could always appeal
it.
It’s a very good thing that
this officer met Alan first. Alan
is a kind, soft-spoken gentleman
who can be rudely awakened at
3:15 in the morning by a tactless,
insensitive, thoughtless pootz of
a coworker and sound like Mary
Poppins in church. Me, I have
little trouble “sharing” my views
about mean, snippy things like
getting big-dollar parking tickets
placed on a hemorrhaging, spew
ing car.
Now let me get something
straight right now...I think that
people who park in handicapped
zones ought to be peeled with
tweezers and covered in salt, but
my car was clearly in need of the
parking spot at the moment and
the only other choice I had was to
park in the street and cause a lot
of grief to the entire universe.
That last statement kind of
sums up the appeal I wrote, which
is probably why they denied it.
They only fined me ONE HUN
DRED DOLLARS instead of the
normal down payment on a
Porsche, but still it seemed as if
justice had taken a U-turn some
where.
The saga continued as more
problems mounted in trying to
pick up my children from school
in our beastly little Dodge Colt as
Alan had a fun ride in the tow
truck (I think they let him play
with the lights or something).
I got he boys before they be
gan sobbing in earnest, and
dashed over to the car-repair-and-
give-them-all-liquid-assets place
in our slobbering, creaking little
Dodge.
I pulled up, or should I say,
careened, lurched and floundered
into the car repair shop and heard
the same kind of little bellowing
screech come from the front of the
Colt. I thought I must be hearing
things and Alan lifted the hood.
It looked as if the car had just spit
itself up all over itself under there.
Somehow we managed to get
home with all of our fingernails;
somehow, a kindhearted president
of the college who shall remain
anonymous pardoned our ticket
after Alan wrote a second, gen
tler and kinder appeal; and some
how, we didn’t need to take out a
second and third mortgage in or
der to pay for the extensive car
repairs.
I’m still not superstitious, but
if I ever need to go to the college
on Friday the Thirteenth again, I
think I’ll skate or take the bus.
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