the band vans in New Brunswick, Steady Beth is legendary for not giving us shit. Because Travis plans it that way. Travis works part-time at Jiffy Lube, so he always changes the oil, checks the belts, tweaks and tunes her so this won’t happen. She’s a 1986, so nine years old, but she’s got a hundred and forty-two thousand miles on her. But we’re not moving and I’ve got an exam at eight thirty in the morning, so I’m thinking the worst.
Maybe it’s something that’s not a big deal. Maybe somebody had to take a piss and Travis is just checking the oil. He is prone to neurotically checking the oil.
I climb out and learn that we’re just at the Chesapeake House, a rest area in the middle of I-95 at the north end of Maryland about two hours from home. And unfortunately, Travis isn’t just checking the oil, and nobody has to take a piss.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Travis is muttering. He looks pissed, and Joey and Cole are standing there looking grim. “It’s the alternator, I’m sure,” Travis says. “The battery is practically new.”
“What the hell are we going to do?” I say.
“I need to replace it,” he says. “I can get a tow from Triple A to a shop, but nobody will be able to work on it until tomorrow morning.”
“Not good enough,” I say. “That doesn’t work at all.”
“I know,” Travis says. “We still need to get you home tonight.”
“We’ll get you home, Emmy,” Joey says. “I’ll piggyback you there if I have to.”
“Nobody is going to piggyback anybody,” Travis says. “We’ll get her a taxi.”
“How much will all that cost?” I say. “If we need to buy an alternator, won’t that be more than our whole guarantee?”
“We’ll pool our money,” he says. “I’ve got thirty in cash on me aside from that. What do you guys have?”
“I’ve got ten,” Cole says.
“Five,” Joey says. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ve got four dollars,” I say.
“That won’t be enough,” Travis says. “But I’ve got enough for the alternator in savings. So we’ll use the guarantee to pay for a taxi.”
“You need that money to fly to Omaha for Easter,” I say.
“I’ll just have to cancel,” Travis says.
“No you won’t,” I argue. “Your parents hate the band enough as it is.”
“No they don’t,” he says. “Shit happens, they’ll understand.”
So we have a plan, it seems. That is, we have a plan until we can’t find a fucking cab company in the phone book that’s picking up the phone at two a.m. What is wrong with you, Maryland? We finally get hold of a car service down in Baltimore who will meet us out here on the interstate, but they can’t get here for an hour at least. But if they get here by three thirty, I can be home by five thirty. I’ll be exhausted, but I’ll make it to my Modern Novel exam. Joey will ride back with me, and Travis and Cole will wait with the van, get Triple A to tow it to a garage in the morning, and Travis will use his savings account to pay for the alternator, as much as I hate this. We’ll pay him back, of course. But it’ll take a few Friday nights at the Court Tavern to get there.
After we hit the bathrooms we head back out and climb back into Steady Beth and wait for the car service to come.
“Maybe if you tell your professor what happened, he’ll give you a makeup exam,” Cole says.
“Uh, no, he definitely will not,” I say. “And if I don’t get a 3.5 or above in this class, I’ll put my scholarship in jeopardy. And if that happens, well, my mother . . .”
“Say no more,” Joey says. “We don’t want your mom to get on your case.”
“I just don’t want to deal with the lecture about life choices,” I say. “You know how she hates this. Jesus, if she could see me right now she’d birth a chimp.”
“You’ll get back for the exam,” Travis says, looking at me in the rearview mirror. “Go on and sleep for a while until the cab gets here. I’ll stay up and wait.”
But none of us can sleep now, so we stay up talking instead. It’s funny how you can spend so much time with the same three people and still have so much to talk about. Travis is waxing poetic about the Internet and how it’s going to change everything for bands like us, and imagine the day