I have come to the conclusion that the absolute worst words you can hear when you are trying to get somewhere fast are: "I'm sorry to tell you, but it looks like your spare is flat, too."
Yep, that sucks. Especially when you are in the middle of nowhere with no means of communication to the rest of the world. How can my spare be flat? I've never even used it!
A pot-bellied, scruffy trucker emerges from behind my Infinity, his caterpillar eyebrows furrowed. "I could give you a ride into town--"
"That's fine," I interrupt him, "I can walk."
"But miss, it's probably 'bout ten miles to the nearest auto shop."
I bite my lip in frustration and begin pacing. I guess you could say that is my nervous tick.
I weigh my options. I really need to get to a very important shoot that is still about two hours away, but I will have to hitch a ride from a trucker with unknown origin. Queue more pacing.
"Miss, are you alright? I really need to get on my way."
"Yea, sorry. I'll get a ride if that's alright with you actually."
Fast forward a few minutes, and I am sitting it the cabin of that guy's truck. Trying not to gag or cough or die. Cigarette smoke wafts towards me, slithering up my nose and into my virgin lungs. I have never had much exposure to smoke, save walking past people on the street, so obviously my airways are figuratively shedding tears.
"Can I take a photo of you?" I ask at the most awkward time.
He turns his head towards me and raises an eyebrow. "Me?"
"Sure."
"Well, I guess, miss, but I don't understand why."
"Cool."
I switch my camera on and point it towards him. The familiar sounds of it focusing and taking the photo warms my body. There's nothing like adding a new photo to your ever-growing collection. To capture a single point in time that will be recorded forever.
He looks back at me and I realize he's waiting for a comment.
"That's a keeper," I say and he smiles.
We finally pull into the outskirts of a small Nevada town, and when I say small, I mean small. A few run-down buildings line a pothole-filled road, and that is it. I see a gas station with a, surprise, small auto shop right next door. The trucker drives under a hanging stop light (that doesn't even work) and pulls up to the auto shop. I fly out of the door, speedwalk up to the front of the brick building, and push through the dirty door. A little bell rings and a boy pops up like a whack-a-mole behind a desk.
I'm not going to lie, my first thought is: "Wow, he's hot."
The boy pushes his curly brown hair from his eyes and stares at me for an uncomfortable moment before he speaks. "Hi, welcome. I'm Christ. Uh, er--I mean--uh--Christopher. Sorry."
A deep blush spreads in between the light dusting of freckles across his cheeks. I don't say anything while he clears his throat and tries again.
"How can we assist you here at the Jacobson Auto Shop today, ma'am?"
"My car broke down. Oh and my name is Riley, before you ask."
"Ah, a common problem with cars. I can take a look at it." He begins making his way towards the door, as if the car was sitting right outside. If only it were that easy.
"Actually, it's about ten miles away. So, yea, sorry." I look down and he sighs.
"How did you get here? Please don't tell me you walked."
