A Forced Vacation: Three Days in Ohio

By Brandon T. Bisceglia
Co-Editor in Chief

My girlfriend, Val, and I were keen for adventure as we set off southward from her Newark, NJ apartment onto the Garden State Parkway. My white Daewoo Nubira was stuffed to the brim with everything we could possibly need for life on the road: a closet’s worth of clothing, CDs, various snack foods, books, games, and an assortment of random items that we figured might come in handy. The midday April sun shone down over the black pavement, which seemed to stretch forever ahead of us, beckoning.

We had decided to spend the nine days of our vacation driving out to the Ozarks in Missouri for a weeklong writers’ gathering. Several old friends would be there to greet us, as well as some new faces we were eager to meet.

Even though the trip would take two-and-a-half days, we had opted to journey by car so that we could experience the great American landscape in a tactile way that faster forms of travel couldn’t provide. Besides, I hadn’t taken a real road trip in over a year. I needed to scratch my itching wanderlust.

By early afternoon, the crowded swarm of Jersey license plates had given way to the open expanse of rolling Pennsylvania pastures. We crossed onto I-76, stopping for lunch at a Subway in a tiny town near Reading. We reached the edge of the Allegheny mountain range several hours later. As the car wended its way around the slopes and valleys, the setting sun bobbed into view and then out again.

It was well past dusk when the last of the foothills fell away from the sight of my rearview mirror, but a constant influx of coffee kept my foot flat on the accelerator. We had driven in darkness a quarter of the way across the flat expanse of Ohio before Val convinced me to find a motel and rest for a few hours. We pulled off in Zanesville at one in the morning, and collapsed.

When we awoke, we felt a renewed lust for exploration. We decided to explore the local attractions. It was a Sunday, so almost everything was closed, but after a few minutes of aimless driving we came across a dusty flea market. The vendors were housed in what appeared to be a small abandoned storage complex; it looked more like a group garage sale than anything else. After scrounging through some of the wares, I bought AC/DC’s album Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap on vinyl and a framed watercolor of some lilies. Val picked up a Bee Gees album.

Our spirits were high as we sped down I-70 towards Columbus. We were going to stop there for lunch at a café I had found on the Internet that sold vegan fare. The city approached, and Val guided me through the various lane changes I had to make to get to the café. At one junction, I accidentally missed our turn. As I veered the car over to the correct direction, something dreadful occurred.

It sounded like this: scruuuunnnnnck!

Almost immediately the car began to lose momentum. I pressed the pedal to its limit, but could not move over 40. A loud whirring sound emanated from the front hood.

We pulled into an empty business driveway and opened the hood. The noise was frighteningly loud, but neither of us could see a problem. The belts all seemed to be whirring. The engine was putt-putting. Nothing was out of place.

“How far are we from the café?” I asked.

“Only about two miles,” Val replied.

I scrunched my nose at the car’s innards. “We can make it that far, as long as I don’t go fast. We can eat and ask them where the nearest repair place is.” She agreed, and we lurched back onto the road.

Some interminable time later, we arrived at our destination. The café was empty, except for a scruffy, aged man sitting at one end of the bar, and two employees behind the counter. I scanned the menu above their heads. Doughnuts, coffee, pastries…

“Excuse me,” I asked one of the employees, a middle-aged woman with brown curls bound into a hairnet. “Is any of your food vegan?”

She looked at me as if I was from a different planet. “Vegan? What’s that?”

“It’s like a vegetarian, except they also don’t eat milk or eggs.”

“No, nothing like that,” she replied. “We don’t serve specialty foods.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say.

The woman peered at Val and me. “You two want anything?”

I looked at Val. “You can eat. I’ll wait.”

“No,” Val said to the woman, and then turned to me. “We’ll find somewhere else that has something you can eat.” She was always doing that sort of thing.

“Is there a car shop nearby?” I asked.

The old man in the corner spoke up before the woman could respond. “Not that’s open on a Sunday,” he drawled. “Somethin’ the matter with your car?”

“We don’t know. It’s making some noise, but we can’t see anything wrong with it. It’ll run, but I can’t get up to full speed.”

He pondered this a moment, staring down at the cup of coffee in front of him. “Right,” he said. “I’ll come out and have a look.”

The man limped out to the parking lot with us as we described what had occurred. I noticed that he was missing most of his teeth. He looked under the hood, had us start the car so he could listen to the noise, and finally came to the conclusion that we probably needed oil. He told us to walk down the street to the convenience store and buy four quarts. He also suggested that we allow the car to run for a few minutes after adding the oil, to see if the noise would go away.

As Val and I ventured to the store, I voiced my doubts about the man’s advice. “I don’t see how it could be the oil,” I said. “I just got it changed before we left yesterday.”

“Maybe that noise we heard before was something breaking that caused a leak,” she speculated.

“Maybe. That’d be one helluva leak…we’d better buy as much oil as we can.”

We picked up a total of eight quarts at the store – everything they had. We carried it back up the block, and I emptied two of them into the car. We started the engine and waited. After a moment, the clanking sound did improve slightly, but not enough to make me confident. I decided to let the car run for about 15 minutes, just to make sure things were copasetic.
Nothing changed at the end of that period, but we were both hungry and eager not to waste more of the day. Besides, the car wasn’t dying or exploding. We got in and took once again to the open road.

About a mile onto the highway, my Daewoo expired.

Val called AAA, and we sat in the simmering afternoon sun, discussing how we’d have to shift our plans to make it to Missouri. I would get the car towed to a shop, and have them look at it when they opened in the morning. We would have to spend the night in Columbus.

An hour later the tow truck showed up. In the driver’s seat was a weathered but lively man of perhaps 40. He offered to take us to a place that was a little farther, but honest and high quality. Val and I agreed to pay the extra that the longer drive would cost. As we sat with him in the cab, he asked us about our lives, and told us about his. At one point, his teenage son called him on his two-way radio, and they conversed like old friends. They parted with an “I love you.” The driver proceeded to explain to us glowingly about how his boy was an upcoming basketball star, and asked us about the college basketball scene in Connecticut. I pretended to know something about UCONN’s team, though the only thing I really knew was that they existed.

We dropped the car off at a shop in a suburban neighborhood with small but manicured lawns. Then he asked us if we wanted a lift to a motel at no extra cost. He brought us to a spot about two miles away that he said would be inexpensive. I kept a mental note of the route he took, so that we’d be able to find the car again the next day.

The motel was along a main road, with department stores right down the street. We had nothing else to do, so we walked over in search of food. We passed a Starbucks, but no restaurants with anything that would meet my dietary needs. Instead, we rifled around in a Home Goods. I found some prepackaged Pumpernickel bread there, and munched on that as we headed back to our temporary abode. On the way, we stopped in a gas station and picked up a map.

The afternoon had started to give way to evening. Val and I were both starved, and I couldn’t stand the idea of being trapped in a motel room for the rest of the evening. The best thing we could do, I thought, was to explore this unknown place. So, map in hand, we picked a direction that looked promising and began walking. Several miles up the road, we came across a Noodles & Company restaurant. Elated, we sat down for a customized meal of noodles, tofu, and salad. The place was thoroughly postmodern, with exposed piping painted in catchy colors and Death Cab for Cutie streaming over the satellite radio speakers. College kids filled the booths around us.

It was dark by the time we headed out. We passed more college students on the streets as we retraced our steps towards the motel. I observed that every person we had seen that day was white. Having grown up near New York City, something about that felt odd to me.

“I know,” said Val, who was born in Uruguay. “Since I came to the U.S., I’ve never felt like a minority until now.”

Back at the motel, I realized that I would have to trek out one more time. When we had dropped the car off at the repair shop, we had left almost all of our stuff inside, including clothes and toiletries. Even if the people there got to it right away, we’d probably be spending half the following day in Columbus. Neither Val nor I wanted to wait that long to change or brush our teeth.

I trudged alone in the darkness, taking the same route that the tow truck had taken earlier that day. At times there was no sidewalk, so I walked through the grass. I imagined how I must look: some stranger prowling across peoples’ lawns at ten o’clock at night. At one point, my foot came down on a sinkhole full of half-crusted mud. I slogged on, muttering obscenities to myself. I got to the car, stuffed all the necessary items into a few bags, and dragged them all the way back with me. The trip took nearly two hours.

That night, Val and I lay wrapped around one another in the unfamiliar and uncomfortable bed. As we drifted towards sleep, I told her a story about a man who was following another man because he had been told that he could learn the meaning of life from him. The main character was led into a pitch-dark building, where he found a set of stairs leading up to a door.

“…and as he felt his way to the door,” I whispered, “it opened on its own. A bright light shown from the other side, blinding him. His eyes adjusted, and he saw someone step out in front of him…”

“And then what happened?”

“…I don’t know…I’m too tired. I’ll finish the story later.”

“Kay,” she breathed, and we slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

I woke up with the dawn on Monday morning. I had to trek back to the repair shop again to give them my key, and I wanted to get there right when they opened. There was free coffee in the motel lobby, which I gladly took advantage of. One thing I’ve discovered from staying in motels and hotels throughout my life is that they often have some of the best coffee around. This was no exception.

At the shop, the owner was more than happy to do whatever he could to fix my car. He spoke slowly, with a thoughtful Midwestern accent. I left with no doubt that my car was in good hands.

Val and I had more time to kill, so we walked back up the way we had gone for dinner the night before. We stopped at a tiny store that sold all kinds of yarn and sowing material. I marveled over the plethora of patterns and colors. In the center of the shop was a large poster explaining how yarn made from camels benefited the nomadic peoples of central Asia. Since they were always on the move, they had little means for survival in the harsh wilderness. Camel yarn was one of their vital sources of income.

We passed the rest of the early afternoon wandering around the area. Around two, the sky started to grow overcast and the wind picked up. Before heading back to our room, Val bought an ice cream from McDonalds. I picked up a newspaper and read about the results of some straw polls for the early candidates of the presidential race. In the middle of our respite, my cell phone rang.

It was the owner of the repair place. He had figured out what the problem was: the idler pulley had snapped. He told me that it wouldn’t be more than a few hundred dollars to fix, but that he’d have to get the part sent to him. Unless he could find a local shop that had one on hand, it could take up to three more days before my car was ready.

“I’ll call around, and get back to you today,” he said.

I relayed this information to Val, who suggested we get the rest of our junk from the car and keep it in the motel room. We called a taxi service from our room, asking them to make sure they brought a mini-van. Once at the shop, we cleared all of the clutter from my car in about fifteen minutes, piling it inside the van. Then we rode back and piled it in one corner of the motel room.

We spent the rest of that afternoon in a kind of nervous suspense. Neither of us was eager to go out again. Val wasn’t feeling well, and I was getting progressively more pessimistic about our situation. We also had to be careful what we did with the rest of our money – neither of us had anticipated all these extra expenses, and they were adding up quickly. There were still six days left to our vacation. We’d need cash for those, too.

Sometime near sunset, the owner called me again. He had good news and bad news.

The good news was that they had found a pulley from someone in Columbus from whom they could get it the next day. The bad news was that the pulley had bent a major engine valve when it broke. I’d have to replace the engine if I wanted my car to work anymore.

“I don’t know what you want to do,” said the owner. “It’ll probably cost you more than the car is worth to fix that. But if you don’t, you won’t have a car.”

“I have to think about it,” I mumbled. “I’ll call before you close.”

I paced around the motel’s parking lot for a few minutes, pondering the ramifications of this development. I suddenly had no desire to go to Missouri. I didn’t want to wait around in Ohio, either. I just wanted to go home and spend the rest of my vacation hiding under my sheets.

Val and I agreed that we couldn’t afford to repair the engine on top of everything else. She called one of our friends who had already arrived in the Ozarks to tell her that we wouldn’t make it. Our friend insisted we come, especially because we had been through so much. She even offered to pay for plane tickets to get us the rest of the way. We declined.

Meanwhile, I called the repair shop back. The owner apologized for the situation, told me that he’d only charge labor for the first half of the day, and that I needed to mail him the title when I got home so that he could scrap the car.

“Thanks for everything,” I replied. “I do have one other question, though. Where is the train station?”

“There is no train station in Columbus,” he answered.

I was shocked. How could a major city not be connected to the rail lines? “Are you sure? I’ve seen freight trains passing over about a block from here.”

“Oh, the railroad passes through here, all right, but they never built a station for a passenger line. There’s no place to get on. Have to use the airport.”

“Okay, thanks again.”

I told Val that we needed to get airline tickets for the morning as soon as we could to avoid having to pay for the motel another day. She searched on her laptop, and found some relatively inexpensive seats on a plane that was leaving in the early afternoon the next day. Then we ordered a pizza.

Outside, the clouds overhead had finally reached their saturation point. The wind picked up again, and lightning darted across the sky. A torrential rain broke out. I’ve always loved storms. I stepped out into this one, reveling in the shock of suddenly being soaked by nature. It momentarily distracted me from everything else that had ensued, and lent perspective to the day. No matter what happened in life, nothing could rob me of the rain. I felt a little better.

The following morning was bright and crisp. Val and I walked to a storage facility nearby to buy some boxes to put our things in. As soon as we were packed, we called another cab to take us to Columbus airport. He drove us on the highway past the inner city area, and I watched the high-rises of the crowded downtown slide by us. I wondered just how much about Columbus and its people we had learned from our two-day sojourn in a suburban corner on the outskirts. Was it the true face of the city? Was there a true face to any city?

At the airport, the first thing we did was check our boxes. We had to move items around between them to make sure they all stayed under the weight limits. Then we found an in-house restaurant for lunch. They put cheese in my salad, but I just picked it out. We sat in the “meditation room” for the remainder of our time before boarding, reading religious texts in relative quiet.

A few hours later, Val and I landed in Newark. Never before had the familiar grime of the metropolis seemed so welcoming to me. We loaded our luggage into another taxi and paid it to bring us to the apartment. It was dusk by the time we finally walked in the door. We had no money, no car, and no energy. We didn’t even bother to unpack the boxes. We headed straight for bed.

As we sank into the blankets, I asked Val, “What do you want to do tomorrow?”

She threw her arms around me, snuggling close. “Nothing!”

I agreed.