NOTE: This will be the last post of 2014 since the next two Wednesdays fall on Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve. See you in 2015!

When you live in Ohio, going to college in Florida is great because you get go to the beach every weekend while everyone at home is freezing their buns off. What’s not so great is the fact that Florida is far away from Ohio, and you’re in college, which means you don’t always have the best car for a 15-hour drive.

Usually everything works out fine. But sometimes

Screeeeaaaaeaeaeeee…

When you’re driving down an empty Kentucky highway at midnight

…eeeeeaaaaEEEEEEAAAA…

Your luck runs out.

….EEEEEECLUNK CLUNKCLUNKCLUNKCLUNKCLUNK.

My luck finally ran out one cold December night my sophomore year of college. A few hours past Nashville, my car decided that enough was enough. It started making the aforementioned screaclunkclukclunk sound, forcing me to get off at the next exit: Mumfordville, Kentucky – proud home of a Sonic, Super 8, Marathon gas station and, as I would later discover, one very crabby mechanic named Buck.

I parked at the Marathon and walked around my car to see if there was anything I could fix. The tires were all inflated, which meant the answer was no, there was nothing I could fix. I then called my dad, who had me tell him what the noise sounded like, then used 20 years of listening to “Car Talk,” to instantly diagnose the problem as a wheel bearing.

No one in Mumfordville had a spare wheel bearing lying around at midnight, which meant I was stuck. I had a whole car full of friends with me at the time, but fortunately, I was caravanning with my friend Rose, so we loaded everybody from my car into hers. An hour later, I was left by myself to wait out the night at the Super 8.

The next morning, I used the yellow pages to find the only mechanic in town: Buck Childress.

I called Buck to explain to him that I was stranded with a wheel bearing issue and could use some help getting back on the road.

“Mmmhmmm. Sure, I’ll take a look,” Buck said. He sounded like Roz from Monster’s Inc. if Roz were male and a much heavier smoker. “I’ll get my stuff together and tow you to my shop in a little bit.”

I was familiar with towing costs from a previous trip to college and was hoping to save a few of my remaining dollars, so I made a suggestion.

“Oh actually, I should be able to just drive down there. You’re pretty close to the Super 8, right?”

Silence on the other end. Finally, “You don’t want to do it my way?”

“Well I should be able to drive it down there. I can have it there in five minutes.”

“If you don’t want to do it my way, your car’s not getting fixed.”

Click.

I like people to like me. It is one of my main things. And for whatever reason, Buck did not like me. At that moment, my primary goal shifted from getting my car fixed to convincing Buck that I am a likable person.

I called him again.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, I think we got disconnected before. There might have been a misunderstanding, I just…”

“We didn’t get disconnected. I hung up because all you wanted to do was argue with me.”

“I wasn’t arguing, there was just a…”

“YOU’RE ARGUING NOW!”

Click.

He had me there. I called one last time. By this time, my voice was a lot louder, squeakier and faster.

“IWANTYOUTOTOWMYCAR! Please come and tow it!”

“Can’t do it.”

“Do you know anyone else who can fix it?”

“Kid, I don’t know another soul who can fix you car.”

Click.

Kid, I don’t know another soul who can fix you car.

You know that feeling you get when you’re stranded in the middle of nowhere with no money and no transportation? You may not – it’s pretty unique to college students and protagonists of road trip movies. Anyways, at that moment, I was fortunate enough to experience that feeling.

I sprinted out of my room and across the street to the Marathon station.

“Hey!” I said to the cashier, trying to act casual despite gasping for air. “Um, so, um, I need some help.”

I told him my story, and he nodded understandingly. Apparently, this was not the first time Buck had refused service to someone who had wronged him.

“So do you think you can convince him to fix my car?”

He picked up his phone.

“Let me call someone else for you.”

“But he said there weren’t any other mechanics around here.”

The cashier laughed. “I’m sure he did.”

He dialed and waited. “Hey Tom, it’s Ed from the Mumfordville Marathon station. Listen, I’ve got a kid here with car trouble, and we were wondering if you and Tim could take a look…Yeah, we already called him…OK.” He gave me a thumbs up. “OK, I’ll tell him.”

“You’re good to go. Tom and Tim are going to pick you up. They’re in Bonnieville about 20 minutes up the road.”

A half hour later, a beat-up tow truck with “Atteberry’s Garage” printed across it rolled up. Tom (60 years old. Furry.) and Tim (Tom minus 30 years.) Atteberry jumped out. I was extra careful to smile at them and heartily agree with everything they said. Soon my car was loaded onto the truck, and I hopped inside between the two of them. We didn’t talk much. I found that if I remained perfectly still, I could sit without my butt touching either Atteberry’s.

Twenty minutes later, we rolled up to Atterberry’s Garage, or more accurately, Tom Atteberry’s home garage. When I got out of the car, I jumped directly into one of the gravel driveway’s many cold puddles. I tiptoed up the rest of the driveway like a pansy until I reached the garage, which was STUFFED with broken car parts. Tim cleared out a spot for my car, while I continued to tiptoe around rusty radiators until I reached a clear spot in the back corner.

When Tom and Tim jacked up my car, I called my mom to provide an update.

“Hey mom!”

“Are you safe? How’s your car?”

“I’m good. I’m actually in this guy’s garage and he’s fixing it now.”

“You’re in his garage? He’s not a weirdo is he?”

“No, he’s actually…”

CHUNK!

I jumped and looked up to see Tom beating the tar out of my front axle with the biggest hammer I’d ever seen.

“What did you say?”

“I said…”

CHUNK!

“Everything’s fine, I’ll call you back.”

I was positive that I would never see my parents again.

I was positive that I would never see my parents again.

While Tom continued to demolish my car, I stood in the corner shivering, listening to country Christmas carols on the radio. I had never experienced country Christmas carols before. I pray I never have to again.

Eventually, Tom got frustrated with the giant hammer and ordered Tim to get the torch. I’ve never gotten a wheel bearing out of a car before, but it seemed to me like there would probably be better ways to do this. Of course I kept that to myself.

After an hour of pounding and torching, the wheel bearing came out. Tom’s mood instantly improved.

“Finally!” He turned to me. “Want to see what your problem was?”

It looked like a bearing that had been beaten and burned for an hour. I widened my eyes and nodded like I knew what I was looking at.

“Want to come with me to see if the part store has your bearing?” he asked.

It had not occurred to me that the part store might not have my bearing. I imagined spending the night in Atterberry’s Garage.

With the tough part of the job over, Tom was more chatty. He talked about his business and his family and Buck. He asked about school. I laughed maybe too much to make sure Tom knew we were friends. The part store had my bearing.

When we got back to Atterberry’s Garage, Tom stopped inside the house to get a sandwich from his wife, Phyllis. Judy saw me, asked if I had anything to eat, then scolded Tom for not making sure I ate. She sat me down at the table with Tim’s two little boys and fed me a baloney and cheese sandwich on Wonder Bread. I don’t like baloney, cheese or Wonder Bread, but lunch was delicious.

While Tom and Tim finished my car, I sat on the couch with the two little boys to watch a parade on TV. After five minutes, we all got bored of the parade, and the boys chased each other around the house while I fell asleep.

I woke up to Tom holding an invoice in front of my face.

“We did it, you’re good to go!”

The invoice, while a lot for a college student, seemed like it was probably less than it should have been. I paid Tom and thanked him over and over.

“Our pleasure!” he said as he handed me his business card. “If you’re ever in town again, stop by!”

That business card is the only one that’s still in my wallet. Even though it’s old and gross, I like it because it reminds me that for every Buck in the world, there’s always a Tom.

LIFE LESSON #49

Don’t call Buck.