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Mary's car being loaded on tow truck at Snoqualmie Pass Summit
BREAKING
DOWN If I had more bladder capacity, my car would not have broken down at the summit of Snoqualmie Pass. I might have made it further along the 250-mile journey between my home and Tacoma, Washington. I might have gotten closer to tow trucks and mechanics. But as I ascended the mountain pass, I felt the call of public restrooms at the summit and pulled off the freeway. I slowed and pulled up to the stop sign, which is when my car – which had been running perfectly well at 70 miles per hour – simply quit. It would start again willingly enough, and immediately die. Start. Die. Start. Die. I limped into the only gas station, where of course there was no mechanic. “None in the area,” said the cashier with the air of someone who’s been asked this question many times. There is good cell phone reception at the summit, so I called my friends in Tacoma to explain why I’d be late and seek advice. “Do you have AAA?” asked Phil, who is an auto buff. “Yes,” I said. He advised me to have the car towed to his mechanic in Tacoma. Not only did it take two-and-a-half hours for the tow truck to arrive, but I discovered I had only minimal AAA coverage, not the kind that costs just a wee bit more and covers towing up to a hundred miles. I hadn’t read the small print, or I would have bought the better coverage. Live and learn, I thought, as I bumped along in the cab of the tow truck, my mind clicking like a taxi meter at three-and-a-half bucks per mile. Sixty miles later we reached the shop. The mechanic turned out to be worth the tow charge. A quick diagnosis and repair for a mere hundred bucks. The problem, as Phil explained it, was that my 1994 Chrysler convertible has 160,000 miles on the odometer. The engine was simply gunked up – too clogged to idle. I was staying with my Tacoma friends while attending the Pacific Northwest Writers Association annual conference in SeaTac. I had planned to skip it this year, but when I learned I was a finalist in the literary contest, I decided it would be poor form not to show up. I had entered the contest, not with the view of winning a prize, but to get the two professional critiques that are sent to each contestant. At least that’s what I tell myself. The conference is an intense four days of networking among writers, editors and literary agents. The standard conversation opener among writers is, “What’s your book about?” At first I’d give what is called the “two-minute pitch,” explaining how I’d written a memoir after my husband died, reflecting on my years of caregiving, his extraordinary paralysis, locked-in syndrome, yah-de-da, yah-de-dah. People would look at me with disconcerting solicitude. “But it’s not a SAD book,” I would protest. After a while I shortened my description. “It’s a memoir I wrote after my husband died,” I’d say. I was one of ten finalists in the memoir category and ended up in the money – third place. The first place winner, whose check was four times larger than mine, told me her memoir is about her twenty-seven years as an unmarried wedding photographer. “Ironic,” I said. “Well, I've had plenty of funny experiences,” she said. “What’s yours about?” “Death,” I said. I made a quick tour of the winners’ reception, held in a crammed and noisy hotel suite, then headed for the peace and quiet of the parking garage. There I discovered a AAA service vehicle charging the dead battery of another conference attendee. “I had a similar experience on Snoqualmie summit while driving over here,” I said sympathetically. He eyed the third-place ribbon glued to my nametag and said, “Well, at least it was worth it for you.” “Yeah,” I said, as I patted the envelope that held my check. Almost enough to cover the towing charge.
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