The Dirt Field

While driving home from dinner at my parents’ house with Paul last night, I wistfully looked out at the torrential downpour and remarked, “I really feel like just laying outside in the rain.” At the time, it just sounded pleasant and relaxing – and also not something that I was actually going to do.

Shortly after making that comment, we came to a blocked section of the road that forced us to take a detour. I chose to take a road that runs parallel to Route 50 in order to bypass multiple traffic lights, and was almost home when I plowed into a puddle. The puddle turned out to be a lake, and my car died immediately. (In my defense, it was dark and it was pouring, so I couldn’t really see far enough ahead to detect the depth of the water.) I was unconcerned at first, until I rolled down the window and noticed that the water was up to the bottom of the door.

I immediately called my father.

“Um, I drove into a really big puddle and now my car won’t start and we’re stuck.”

He paused. “Are you kidding?”

“Of course I’m not,” I snapped. “Don’t you think I’d make up a better story if I was?”

He hung up immediately and came in his SUV to bail us out. By the time he arrived, Paul and I had gotten out into the murky brown water and pushed the car onto dry land. Because it still wouldn’t start, my dad had to tow it back to my apartment with his SUV while I steered with my entire upper torso hanging out the window in the continuing downpour.

In the end, Paul and I were both freezing cold and soaking wet as I unlocked the door to our apartment. “Paul?” I said. “Remember earlier when I said I wanted to lay outside and look at the rain? For the record, I didn’t mean that literally.”