Day 319

After bragging to my boss that I haven't stepped foot in a Target for over two weeks (which is a record, I might add), I decided I just had to go tonight. And not just any Target, either, but the nicer, cleaner one in Wheeling, which is a suburb in the exact opposite direction of home.

This week I noticed the car has been acting stupidly, but Kyle chalked it up to "bad gas." However, when pulling out of the Target parking lot (in far and away Wheeling), the car started sputtering really bad. Then jerking violently. Then making a "pop pop" sound every time I tried to accelerate. Top that off with the smell of burning, and I was officially stranded in the northwest suburbs. AWESOME! Could I be any farther from home?!

But the story only gets better, thanks to my Super Polish Tow Truck Driver. Let's call him Stan.

Stan gets out of the truck, gives me the once-over, and immediately starts arguing with me.

(Imagine the voice of Borat)
"Why you tow to Chicago? Why Chicago?! There are mechanics in Wheeling! Why Chicago! That is far!"
Yes, I realize it's far. I'm not exactly excited about riding in a truck with you for 30 miles either, but that's where I live. Coincidentally, that's where my mechanic lives also, so shut up and take me to the city!

Then he attempts to start the car, accelerates it, and of course it never once makes the scary "pop pop" sound for him. After rolling his eyes at me two or three times, he starts loading up the car. As I climb into the truck, I'm greeted with a giant sticker on his dash that reads "PSYCHO." This should be a blast.

We're finally out of the parking lot and he enters my mechanic's address into his GPS. Son of a.. his GPS tells him to take 294, rather than the route every Chicagoan knows is better (Edens/94). I consider telling him to take the faster route, but I've already pissed him off, so I keep my mouth shut.

We get on 294 and traffic is surprisingly light. Whew. Won't be such a terrible ride after all, right? But wait, Stan is the craziest driver in the world, whipping in and out of semis, hurling through construction zones, and never once using his blinker. EVER. I am certain this is how I'm going to die.

I open my eyes when I feel the truck slowing down, and he points at the parking lot of traffic we're coming upon, rolls his eyes at me, and says, "Very nice. Why Chicago?!" Though I'm not thrilled at the idea of spending more time with Stan, I am terribly grateful he has no room to drive fast.

Then he turns on some music. Polish club music. Like, crazy European techno shit. Enough said.

As we're inching closer and closer to our exit, traffic finally opens up (yay! Almost home!), and his phone rings. It's a customer needing a tow. So instead of politely telling the man he would call him back, Stan pulls over. On Interstate 90. In the middle of rush hour. To write down this dude's information. I am never getting home!

After what seems like an eternity, he finally hangs up and gets back on the road, telling me, "Ha! Now I have to go back to Wheeling, and tow this guy up to Gurnee. Long night for me!" Sorry, Stan, that's your job.

Finally, we exit safely (Thank you, Jesus), and I'm ready to leap from the truck. When we pull up to the mechanic's shop, I see Kyle sitting on his scooter, saving us a spot. Stan finds this to be hilarious. "Ha ha! That your husband?! Ha ha!"

And because my "husband" is the greatest, nicest, most thoughtful man in the world, he greeted me with a chocolate covered donut. This completely made up for my terrible night, but I hope to never, ever, never, ever, ever, ever, never see Stan again. The end!

[photo to come]