kiki cuyler

I was tucked safely in Ralf and Florian's backseat; we were driving through the Midwest and for an hour, I thought maybe the sunrise wasn't coming.

I was on my way to College Station when the gas pedal started giving out. I coasted into an empty truck stop (it was 11 PM). Figured it was the oil, cos there was some smoke. Then Mary E---- showed up with a new Ford Ranger and a Chihuahua lashed to the gearshift. She was something else. Incessant in every way - talked a torrent, drove me to the Wal-Mart and insisted on waiting, expressed slight amazement that her mother would live 1) near a cemetery and 2) near "the black people". I tried to beg off once I got a flashlight and four quarts in the engine, but first, she had clippings to show me. She keeps a laminate pouch of her two sons' graduation notices and armed forces portraits. She showed me, also, a photo of her parents. Her father, she said, died of cancer eight years ago. After much refusal on my part, she wrote down her number in case I had any more car trouble. This in addition to her muffler shop's business card (she cleans floors there two hours a day, seven bucks an hour).

And the car died on I-35 two days later. Looks like I threw a rod. I know, I know: how can something that sounds so sexy be so bad? Either they rebuild the engine or I buy a new one, and since we're talking about a 1992 Camry, neither is an option. Baby's in the market for a used car.