Saints on the Boulevard

We love our car, a 1988 VW Fox that Wesley bought just a few months after we started dating. She's been to Maine, Ohio, Pennsylvania a bunch of times, in to Jersey down to Maryland, and all around our great state of New York. She helps Wesley haul things for work, and takes us to visit our friends across the creek in Williamsburg. But she's a bit of a thoroughbred, and we've developed a good relationship with the folks at Manners Motors, off of Northern Boulevard on 45th Street and 34th Ave. We call our car Ellen Johnson, and we call the stretch of road over the bridge back to our side of the Boulevard "The Ellen Johnson Walk of Despair."

Yesterday I had to pick EJ up from Manners so I called Bliss 48 to take me over there. Got the car, drove home, no problem. I was headed to a party in Ditmas Park, and since the 7 train is all screwed up, the plan was to drop the car off in LIC proper and catch the E/V into Manhattan where I'd then get the D, the ultimate goal being to transfer to the R. Wesley's lot is over there, and since he was working an overnight he'd be bringing the truck back around 5 am, where EJ would be waiting for him to ferry him home. (I split a car home with 3 W'burg friends that cost us over $40, all told.)

My first stop was Lowery's, where I picked up a bottle of Pinot Noir to contribute to the soiree, a girl's only Valentine's Day party hosted by a dear friend I don't see nearly enough of. Then, I set off down the Boulevard.

I was cruising in one of the middle lanes, when all of a sudden I couldn't see. My brain could not immediately process what was happening, but instinctively I knew not to slam on the brakes. The front hood had flown up in my face, blocking my vision. I flicked my hazards on and used my rear mirrors to determine when I could come to a halt without getting rearended. I knew I had some time before I reached a red light so my chances of killing a pedestrian in the crosswalk were negligible.

I'm in the middle of Queens Boulevard, across from the McDonald's at 38th Street, and I get out to put the hood down. I can't get it down--it's stuck on the windshield wipers. I'm tugging and tugging and realize I'm in danger of having it slam on my fingers. People are driving past me and honking at me, which is really just so very rude, don't you think? I have no idea what to do. I tend to panic in car-related situations, and the tears start to come and turn into a full-fledged panic attack with hyperventilating.

At this point, enter the good Samaritans. 2 cars stopped for me--3 very, very nice men who calmed me down, and who wrestled with the front hood until it came down. They offered to call AAA for me, but I had my AAA card so they just made room for me to make the left hand turn into the parking area under the 7 train. I called Wesley, who advised me to pay for the meter until 10 pm and that he'd deal with the car on Sunday. I did just that, then took the bus at 38th Street to Queens Plaza, where I got the R to the Q and was at the party an hour later. And, boy, did I drink that Pinot Noir.

Many thanks to you for stopping, whoever you may be. I hope something good comes back to you because of it.