Pushing the Right Button
If you ever need some serious help, this blog post is for you.
During the time I lived in New York City, in the era before cell phones and computers (if you can recall that quaint time), I worked in several Catholic schools. I enjoyed teaching, but financially, it wasn’t the road to riches. I had as much money as there are cathedrals in Saudi Arabia. My car was “vintage”: a 12-year old Datsun hatchback, green with a black interior. To say it had seen better days was like saying when Vesuvius erupted, Pompeii got a little warm. Aside from the oil leak and the rusted out floorboard on the passenger side, the broken driver’s seat had to be supported from behind by a wooden brace constructed of two-by-fours.
One bright May day, I drove this glorious vehicle home to Brooklyn from the school where I worked in Queens. It was about 3:00 and the traffic was still light on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. As I approached the Kosciusko Bridge, the car began to make a horrendous shrieking noise. I made it over the bridge and then pulled over to the shoulder. When I looked underneath, I saw that the tailpipe had rusted through and broken in the middle, under the gas tank. One end of it angled down and touched the ground. As I drove forward, it scraped the roadbed and produced the squealing sound.
I had no way to fix it, but my exit was only about two miles away. I thought I could just drive very slowly and make it off the BQE before the other end of the tailpipe ruptured the gas tank and set me and my car ablaze. I like to eat barbecue; I didn’t want to become barbecue.
Sweating with fear, I got back in the car and crept along. At that point, the three-lane BQE becomes elevated, with no shoulder. The squealing seemed to grow louder and louder. Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. I stopped the car in the right lane and turned off the engine. To my disbelief, the car kept running; I could feel it vibrating. After a moment, I realized the motor was still—it was the entire roadway that shook.
Before I stopped, I had passed an emergency call-box. I decided to exit the car and walk back to it. Instead of a shoulder, there was a raised concrete barrier about a foot wide and a very low guard rail. I got out of the car on the passenger side. The noise and wind of passing traffic was extreme, and the roadway shook beneath my feet. I stood on the raised edge and peered over the railing at the 17’ drop to the streets below. No way out there.
As I walked toward the call-box, I realized that was the day I might die. Semi-trucks and cars passed right next to me at high rates of speed, buffeting me with gusts of wind. One smack of a side-view mirror and I was dead.
Then, with a spark of hope, I saw a police cruiser driving slowly on the opposite side of the BQE. I waved both hands frantically to get his attention. A friendly soul, he smiled and waved back. And kept going. No help there.
By this time, traffic had begun to back up behind my car. A sedan stopped right beside me with three Hasidic Jews inside. My heart lifted; surely these religious men would help me. The man in the backseat rolled down the window, “Do you know what’s slowing the traffic?”
“Yes, my car broke down.” I pointed to the green hatchback, “It’s blocking the lane.”
“Ah.” He said something in Yiddish to the driver, and their car shot forward into the middle lane and drove off. He didn’t even thank me for the information.
My only hope was the call-box. It was really just a metal speaker set on a pole affixed to the guard rail.. There were two large buttons on it, labeled FIRE and POLICE. I reached up and pushed the blue POLICE button. After a few moments, the box crackled and I heard a woman’s voice, nasal with a thick New York accent, “Can I help you?”
It worked! “Yes, my car broke down on the BQE.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.”
Of course not; the noise of trucks whooshing past was tremendous, and I was about a foot too short to put my mouth next to the speaker holes. I shouted, “My car broke down on the BQE.”
She still couldn’t hear me. I cupped my hands around my mouth, stood on tiptoe and screamed. She never heard me; it was useless.
Traffic had increased, and I was desperate. I lofted a prayer, “Lord, please help me. I don’t know what to do.”
As I walked back to the car, a bright yellow, mid-size Penske moving van pulled up behind my Datsun. Two black men emerged wearing white shirts and dark slacks. They walked so purposefully toward the Datsun, I thought they were going to strip it.
“Hey, that’s my car!” I shouted. I hurried back on the raised concrete barrier. When I got there, one of the men said, “What’s wrong with it?” I told him about the broken tailpipe scraping the road. He knelt down and looked under the car. Then he stood up and peered over the hatchback toward the front. He jogged around it, and several feet in front of it to pick up something lying in the roadway. He brought back a thin, broken engine belt.
While the other man stood silent as a sentinel, he lay down on the road and slid under the car without saying a word. Very shortly, he emerged and stood up. “I tied up the tailpipe, so now you can drive the car.” With that, they turned and walked away.
For a moment, I stood there open-mouthed and speechless, but then I shouted, “Wait!” I ran toward them, “Thank you, thank you so much!” They smiled and shook my hand.
“You’ll be all right now,” one said. “We’ll follow you to the exit. Don’t worry, we’ll be right behind you.”
With tremendous relief, I drove carefully to the exit, about one mile away. I kept glancing in my rear-view at the bright yellow Penske van.
The exit was the shape of a cloverleaf. It made a very sharp, almost 360-degree turn at a downward pitch off the elevated highway. It ended at a stoplight underneath. I saw them follow me onto the ramp, and we inched down it in tandem at 15 m.p.h. At the base, I stopped at the red light and glanced in my rear-view. No one was behind me.
* * *
When I was in New York last October, my friend Jane picked me up at Laguardia. We drove the same route on the BQE as we traveled to her place near Bay Ridge in Brooklyn. The emergency call-box is long-gone, obsolete in the age of cell phones.
For travel safety, the cell phone is a wonder.
Here's some advice: Keep it with you, and make sure you can speed-dial these emergency numbers: Fire, Police, and Prayer.
During the time I lived in New York City, in the era before cell phones and computers (if you can recall that quaint time), I worked in several Catholic schools. I enjoyed teaching, but financially, it wasn’t the road to riches. I had as much money as there are cathedrals in Saudi Arabia. My car was “vintage”: a 12-year old Datsun hatchback, green with a black interior. To say it had seen better days was like saying when Vesuvius erupted, Pompeii got a little warm. Aside from the oil leak and the rusted out floorboard on the passenger side, the broken driver’s seat had to be supported from behind by a wooden brace constructed of two-by-fours.
One bright May day, I drove this glorious vehicle home to Brooklyn from the school where I worked in Queens. It was about 3:00 and the traffic was still light on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. As I approached the Kosciusko Bridge, the car began to make a horrendous shrieking noise. I made it over the bridge and then pulled over to the shoulder. When I looked underneath, I saw that the tailpipe had rusted through and broken in the middle, under the gas tank. One end of it angled down and touched the ground. As I drove forward, it scraped the roadbed and produced the squealing sound.
I had no way to fix it, but my exit was only about two miles away. I thought I could just drive very slowly and make it off the BQE before the other end of the tailpipe ruptured the gas tank and set me and my car ablaze. I like to eat barbecue; I didn’t want to become barbecue.
Sweating with fear, I got back in the car and crept along. At that point, the three-lane BQE becomes elevated, with no shoulder. The squealing seemed to grow louder and louder. Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. I stopped the car in the right lane and turned off the engine. To my disbelief, the car kept running; I could feel it vibrating. After a moment, I realized the motor was still—it was the entire roadway that shook.
Before I stopped, I had passed an emergency call-box. I decided to exit the car and walk back to it. Instead of a shoulder, there was a raised concrete barrier about a foot wide and a very low guard rail. I got out of the car on the passenger side. The noise and wind of passing traffic was extreme, and the roadway shook beneath my feet. I stood on the raised edge and peered over the railing at the 17’ drop to the streets below. No way out there.
As I walked toward the call-box, I realized that was the day I might die. Semi-trucks and cars passed right next to me at high rates of speed, buffeting me with gusts of wind. One smack of a side-view mirror and I was dead.
Then, with a spark of hope, I saw a police cruiser driving slowly on the opposite side of the BQE. I waved both hands frantically to get his attention. A friendly soul, he smiled and waved back. And kept going. No help there.
By this time, traffic had begun to back up behind my car. A sedan stopped right beside me with three Hasidic Jews inside. My heart lifted; surely these religious men would help me. The man in the backseat rolled down the window, “Do you know what’s slowing the traffic?”
“Yes, my car broke down.” I pointed to the green hatchback, “It’s blocking the lane.”
“Ah.” He said something in Yiddish to the driver, and their car shot forward into the middle lane and drove off. He didn’t even thank me for the information.
My only hope was the call-box. It was really just a metal speaker set on a pole affixed to the guard rail.. There were two large buttons on it, labeled FIRE and POLICE. I reached up and pushed the blue POLICE button. After a few moments, the box crackled and I heard a woman’s voice, nasal with a thick New York accent, “Can I help you?”
It worked! “Yes, my car broke down on the BQE.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.”
Of course not; the noise of trucks whooshing past was tremendous, and I was about a foot too short to put my mouth next to the speaker holes. I shouted, “My car broke down on the BQE.”
She still couldn’t hear me. I cupped my hands around my mouth, stood on tiptoe and screamed. She never heard me; it was useless.
Traffic had increased, and I was desperate. I lofted a prayer, “Lord, please help me. I don’t know what to do.”
As I walked back to the car, a bright yellow, mid-size Penske moving van pulled up behind my Datsun. Two black men emerged wearing white shirts and dark slacks. They walked so purposefully toward the Datsun, I thought they were going to strip it.
“Hey, that’s my car!” I shouted. I hurried back on the raised concrete barrier. When I got there, one of the men said, “What’s wrong with it?” I told him about the broken tailpipe scraping the road. He knelt down and looked under the car. Then he stood up and peered over the hatchback toward the front. He jogged around it, and several feet in front of it to pick up something lying in the roadway. He brought back a thin, broken engine belt.
While the other man stood silent as a sentinel, he lay down on the road and slid under the car without saying a word. Very shortly, he emerged and stood up. “I tied up the tailpipe, so now you can drive the car.” With that, they turned and walked away.
For a moment, I stood there open-mouthed and speechless, but then I shouted, “Wait!” I ran toward them, “Thank you, thank you so much!” They smiled and shook my hand.
“You’ll be all right now,” one said. “We’ll follow you to the exit. Don’t worry, we’ll be right behind you.”
With tremendous relief, I drove carefully to the exit, about one mile away. I kept glancing in my rear-view at the bright yellow Penske van.
The exit was the shape of a cloverleaf. It made a very sharp, almost 360-degree turn at a downward pitch off the elevated highway. It ended at a stoplight underneath. I saw them follow me onto the ramp, and we inched down it in tandem at 15 m.p.h. At the base, I stopped at the red light and glanced in my rear-view. No one was behind me.
* * *
When I was in New York last October, my friend Jane picked me up at Laguardia. We drove the same route on the BQE as we traveled to her place near Bay Ridge in Brooklyn. The emergency call-box is long-gone, obsolete in the age of cell phones.
For travel safety, the cell phone is a wonder.
Here's some advice: Keep it with you, and make sure you can speed-dial these emergency numbers: Fire, Police, and Prayer.
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