How long does it take two Filipinos, a couple boxes of vintage 80’s costumes and a bag of dirty laundry to travel by car from Scotch Plains, NJ to Astoria, NY on a Sunday night?
a) 1 hour
b) 10 minutes
c) Over 6 hours
d) All of the above
If you guessed “c,” congratulations, you’re probably a jaded bitch who feeds off of the bilious snark and hyperbole of sad old queens like me. If you guessed “d,” well, you’re just plain stupid. Regardless, my personal
Trail of Tears began with a dignity-stripping emergency potty break on the side of the interstate and ended with Trish and I thumbing for a ride with our belongings (boxes and all) on a deserted industrial stretch of Long Island City roadway.
You may remember the infamous "
Chewbacca" incident of several years ago. Though not quite as dramatic, this “ride” - and I use the term loosely - lasted just as long as the Richmond trip, only this time we covered a mere 30 miles (as opposed to 340). So for all you aspiring mathematicians, this trip definitely supplied a better “bang-per-mile” ratio.
To provide some context to our evening, Trish and I had spent five hours earlier that day in the moldy
CDC basement sorting sweat-stained costumes, picking up dirty socks and t-shirts and wiping down crusty make-up stations.
Wedding Singer closed the night before and we were looking forward to a magical evening at home with some Chinese take-out and the DVR. Trish was anxious to finish packing for her six-week-long trip to the Philippines. Since she’d only have one full day at the apartment before heading to Newark, she wanted to have one last relaxing evening at home.
But alas, ‘twas not to be. With the GWB just within our sights, the car’s temperature gauge began a mocking monotone buzz. Of course, with cement walls to both sides of us and no shoulder, options for pulling over were severely limited and we decided to push onward despite the warning. Push on, that is, until the pretty, white plumes of smoke began seeping through the hood. With traffic barely moving and the car threatening to self combust, we decided to risk imminent collision and stop right there on the slow lane of I-95.
Call #1 to AAA - we are connected to something called the GWB Authority for a tow. Fine. Except that I’ve had about a gallon of liquids since we left Juan and Val’s and I will very soon wet myself. With no shoulder and no obvious discrete hiding place, I decide that waving my member out the door for discharge is too gauche even for this demure flower. Instead - as suggested by my resourceful sis - I cut the top off an empty Poland Spring bottle, hop into the back seat, wrap one of Trish’s fashionable scarves around myself for privacy and….aah…relief. Of course, a full, lidless bottle of urine is not something you want or need sitting around a steaming car, so despite the threat of a $500 littering charge, I dump the bottle and contents to the side of the road. Shhh - don’t tell anyone.
A tow truck pulls up and we are temporarily elated. The driver informs us he’s not with AAA. He just happened to drive by, notice our distress and that for cash, he’ll tow us off the highway for much cheaper than AAA. We decide he looks a bit too much like a child molester and wave him off.
Call #2 to AAA, one hour later - Like the first call, the operator transfers us to The Authority (I’ll use this abbreviation for “GWB Authority” going forward since to me, it sounds both menacing and dangerous - but in a sexy, military sort of way). The Authority explains that since they own this stretch of highway, we must use their towing service to get moved off the highway and from there, we can call AAA. Again, fine. But The Authority isn’t going to outsmart us this time. We take their direct number to avoid further wait times and transfers.
Call #3 to The Authority, one hour later - Still no sign of a tow and it’s now dark out. The traffic continues to lurch along slowly. In the last two hours, two good Samaritans have stopped to offer help. No offense to you Caucasian readers, but both helpful souls are minorities. Not that that means anything, but where’s the love from whitey? I’m just saying. Anyway, The Authority now explains to us that we’re actually
not on their property. Instead, we need to call the NJ State Police who will set up a tow off the highway and then we can contact AAA. What the f*ck?!?
Call #4 to NJ State Police, 15 minutes later - The state police are extremely helpful and quickly take our location and information. They’ll have a tow truck to us within 30 minutes.
Voila! 15 minutes later a tow truck magically materialized out of the traffic. We’re saved. Except this driver wasn’t dispatched by the state police either. He’s another random passing truck. We’ve been on the side of the highway for over 2 1/2 hours and Trish says, “f**k the police, we’re getting off the road.” For a nominal fee (cash, of course), he is going to tow us to a gas station where we can finally contact AAA.
Call #5 to NJ State Police, 15 minutes later - Trish explains our current situation to the dispatcher. The police won’t take responsibility if we use an unauthorized tow. We don’t care. We are then whisked away to a gas station somewhere in Fort Lee, NJ. It’s closed, but at least now we don’t have to worry about getting rear-ended by a semi.
Call #6 to AAA, 5 minutes later - Trish excitedly speaks to a representative who instantly rains on our parade. Because we are at a gas station attached to a garage, we must prove to the tow truck driver that we do not have any outstanding unpaid charges due to the station. Of course, it being 10:30 pm on a Sunday night in Fort Lee, the garage is closed and we have no way of proving anything. We ask if we can move (push?) the car off the property, but are told that it’s already been documented so we might as well stay put and wait. F*ck you, AAA!!!
Trish now has the same problem I had two hours earlier and walks around the dark property looking for a squat spot. She returns a few minutes later hoping she won’t wake up in the morning with a nasty rash on her dainty bits. For the next 90 minutes or so, I nap and compulsively binge on the only food source in the car, Danish butter cookies and Sun chips. Mmmm, healthy.
It’s just after midnight when the bright beams of our salvation round the corner. Thankfully, this driver has never heard of the “prove-your-not-stealing-this-car” policy that AAA had explained to us just hours earlier. We refrain from kneeling down and kissing his well-worn work boots, jump in the front seat of the truck and direct him to our mechanic’s garage.
It’s now nearly 1 am and we are a block away from
Salamis. As we approach, we notice that all the lights are off and the metal gate is stretched across the office door. Did I mention the garage is supposed to be open 24 hours? And that it’s located on a deserted, dirty, industrial stretch of Long Island City? Our friendly tow truck driver declines our tip. He’s probably grateful to get rid of two sweaty passengers and drive away from the likely location of a soon-to-be mugging and double murder.
Call #7 to Salamis, 90 minutes later - Standing just outside the locked office, we hear the ring of the office phone taunt us on the deserted street. Miraculously, someone answers. Tony has been sitting in the darkened office manning the garage phone. Apparently, just their towing service is 24 hours, the garage, however, is closed for the night. Yeah, whatever, just take our car keys and fix the damn thing.
Call #8 to Executive Car, 15 minutes later - Our new best friend, Tony (I made that name up. I don’t have a clue what his name is, but he looked like a Tony), calls us a car. Of course, Trish is leaving for the Philippines in less than 48 hours and has all her dirty laundry in the van as well as two huge boxes full of
Wedding Singer costumes that need to be mailed back to the warehouse. We stand on the deserted street corner with all our bags and boxes, serenaded by Tony’s Brooklynese chatter, waiting for our car. Finally, Akmed (I made that name up, too - and yes - I’m racist) pulls up. We load all our belongings into the trunk and back seat of his Lincoln Town car.
“Are you moving?” he asks. “Shut the f*ck up and drive, bitch,” I want to say. Instead, I give a fake chuckle and say, “No, it’s complicated.” He doesn’t pursue it further. He sees by my glare that I’m mentally imbalanced and might possibly stab him through the back of his leather seat cushion with a machete.
We finally get home at around 1:30 am. I carry the boxes up the stairs and immediately head to bed knowing I’ll have to be at the office in seven hours.
