The other night Violette and I went to see a play at the Mad Cow Theater. As these things happen, our seemingly innocuous and artsy fartsy evening actually turned out to be quite eventful. For reasons I will explain further, Vi and I ended up lurking the streets of downtown Orlando with the hookers and homeless until the wee hours of the morning.

The Play
Was called Bus Stop. A rural-themed romance, it originally played on Broadway in 1955 and later was adapted for the screen. In the movie, the lead character, a night club singer was played by Marilyn Monroe. Sounds good right?

Yeah, that’s what it ended up being, good… for me to poop on. (Interesting Triumph-related aside: I got googled for “Did Ritchie feather his pubes?” and I’m the #1 result. Jealoussss?)

But yeah, the Marilyn character was a twig, and the cowboys all had bald spots. The girls behind us kept laughing loudly at things that weren’t funny and the old woman to my right kept repeating things she’d read in the playbill.

In summary: play was not so great. The after party, however, was unbelievable.

The Drama
After the play ended around 9:30pm V and I walked out to the street where her Jetta was parked. To our dismay the lights had been left on, and guess what?

The engine wouldn’t start.

So this is how we spent the next couple hours:

9:35 – 9:45 pm: Attempt to start dead engine by repeatedly turning key in ignition. Realize that even though the engine isn’t starting, the alarm works just fine. Each time the key goes in, a cacophonous, ear-splitting siren resounds, and said sonorous blasts wake the homeless man living in the corolla parked in front of the Jetta. The alarm will be jarring this man, packed in amongst his TP and television, for the next three hours.

9:45pm: Call 9-1-1 and tell the cops you have an emergency.

10:00 – 10:15pm: Schmooze with po-po. They can’t give you a jump, but they bet Geico can. Borrow officer’s cell phone (as yours has been temporarily blocked, because that’s what happens apparently, when you dial emergency phone numbers.) Talk to lady at Geico with heavy southern accent. You can barely decipher anything she’s said, but you think she’s sending roadside assistance.

10:15 – 11:15pm: Get inside vehicle and wait for Orlando Pop-A-Lock. Notice that with the cops gone, bums have started descending on the scene. You don’t worry, because you realize that in addition to placing the key in the ignition, opening the door also sets off the clamorous, post-apocolyptic shrieking of the car alarm.

11:16pm: Start getting worried because a) you’re suddenly hungry, b) you’ve got to pee like no other, and c) there’s no indication that anyone’s coming to rescue the damsels in distress.

11:20 -11:40pm: As previously locked phone is now working, call Geico back. Learn that roadside crew attempted a rescue, but could not find the vehicle. Figure it must’ve been difficult what with there only being 10 cars on the street, ours being the one making the ungodly racket. Consider locating a flashing neon sign to post on the vehicle, so as to make it that much more obvious, but instead give Geico dispatch a street address and wait for roadside service… again.

11:40pm: Gotta pee real bad. Decide that maybe roadside isn’t coming and backup would be a good idea. Call friend who is sick and sleepy and who lives thirty minutes away. He is a nice guy and has agreed to come out.

Midnight: Roadside assistance shows up, but we feel bad about our friend coming out for no reason, so we do the “smart” thing. We send the roadside folks away. (In retrospect, this is a big mistake.)

12:10am: Friend shows up, jumper cables in hand. Twenty attempts at engine turnover fail. Uh oh.

12:20am: Call Orlando Pop-A-Lock and learn they can not be re-dispatched without going through Geico. For a third time, talk to southern lady at Geico. She says pop-a-lock people will be by in one hour.

12:25am: Call a second friend. You had to wake his parents to reach him, but he’s agreed to drive downtown, pick up Hänni and take her home, while Violette and Friend At Scene wait for the roadside guys.

12:35am: Roll down windows. Even though it’s winter, it’s still freaking 75 degrees out and the Jetta is a wee bit uncomfortable. Recoil in horror as man from the street literally sticks his head in said unrolled window and asks if we need help. Instead of foisting him off, saying we’ve got things under control, (as we’ve been telling bums all night), we spill the beans about our engine trouble.

12:35 – 1:00am: From the passenger seat, watch Man From Street as he tinkers with the engine. Notice his white shirt is not buttoned all the way down. There’s a weird, greasy stripe down his left arm and his pants are way too big. He doesn’t have a belt, so he’s rolled his khakis a few times at the waist. He seems like he might be drunk, but he’s doing a great job! Why in only ten minutes he’s disabled the annoying alarm. And wouldn’t you know it? He knows a way to start the car without calling roadside service. “This is how we do in South Carolina,” he says, and asks us to get out of the car to push. He will put the car in first and pop the clutch once we’re rolling.

1:05am: Man From The Street gets the engine started. He slowly turns the corner, and it looks for a second like he might not stop. As you watch the strange man continue down the street, you wonder if insurance will cover vehicle theft.

1:06am : Man From The Street exits Jetta. *Whew*. Stranded girlfriends literally jump up and down, and then say thank you to the man. Man From The Street responds, “Hey I helped you out. Why don’t you help me out? I just got out of the 33rd street jail.” We give the man some cash, and then, because we’ve been waiting hours to do so, we get the eff outta dodge.

Posted in Friends, Mixed Bag