I'm at the Ramada in West Memphis, Arkansas. If you're keeping score at home, West Memphis is almost Memphis... almost.
So, why am I in West Memphis? A questioned pondered by the great thinkers of every generation, and now, I ponder it myself. Luckily, I don't have to look too deep inside my soul to discover the answer. I just have to pop the hood on my car.
The alternator, as alternators do, has gone kaput, rather unexpectedly, in a state that I actually don't have a song lyric for. It's a shame. However, when I was trying to fix the electrical problem, which was initially incorrectly diagnosed as "bad connections" on the battery, I stopped at an Autozone in Osceola, AR. While the sales rep was fixing the loose ends, I though "Osceola, Arkansas with a broken connection" sounded like a pretty sweet song title, or at least a decent lyric.
So, I stuck with it and imagined someone like Jack White belting it out over a lo-fi piano recording, then, it was clear that my "broken connection" was something much worse.
All electrical systems failed. It was like I was being hit with an ion cannon. (If you're a girl and you understand that last part, I would like to propose, or at least get coffee). I pulled over to the side of the road and waited for a tow truck.
For three hours.
Apparently, when you're on the Tennessee/Arkansas border, things get confused, and it's impossible to explain to anyone over the phone exactly where you are.
And so, now, I sit in my hotel room, belly full of Waffle House fare, and I stick it out. Hoping against hope that the alternator can be replaced before Noon tomorrow, and I can be back out on that highway.
Headed towards the Lone Star State.
Yah!
[What do you do with the pieces of a broken heart?]
No comments:
Post a Comment