Summary: <br> When I was in college, I had a blue 1981 Toyota Celica that overheated on the long trip to Oklahoma, and the engine burned up. <br> <br> <br> <br> Photo by Mantas Hesthaven – Creative Commons No known copyright restrictions https://unsplash.com/@mantashesthaven?utm_source=haikudeck&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=api-credit<br> <br> <br> <br> It was my first car. I had bought it with the money I earned over summers as a shell diver in the Kentucky Lake area. But now it was toast, and I became a car-less college kid. On my next summer break, I talked a friend into driving me back to Tennessee on his way home to North Carolina. Any money I earned that summer I had to save for school. Before long, it was time return to college, and I had planned to catch a Greyhound bus back this time.<br> <br> <br> <br> The morning of my trip, I began packing my bag for the long road between Paris, Tennessee and Tulsa, Oklahoma. Shoving in all my belongings, and holding the bag down with my knee, I pulled the zipper closed around it. But as I did, it suddenly broke. The zipper threads spread open like long, jagged lines of opposing soldiers. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t weave them back in line, and the broken metal clasp was now in pieces.<br> <br> <br> <br> I had an idea. I found my dad’s toolbox and retrieved some plastic wire-ties. With a pair of sharp scissors, I started cutting holes along the edges of the zipper hemming, and inserting the plastic ties, then pulling them tight. It worked. I had found a makeshift solution. <br> <br> <br> <br> But as I dug the scissors into the next hole with my right hand, I didn’t think about my left hand as I was clenching the fabric beneath, and I quickly sliced through my left index finger. As I stared at the oozing blood, I knew I’d need stiches. Not only did I have a long bus ride ahead of, but now I’d be traveling with the fresh sting and throb of a sewed-up finger.<br> <br> <br> <br> Mom gave me a ride to the ER. This was 1989, and 21-year-olds were not covered by their parents’ insurance in those days. And I hadn’t bothered to look for any other coverage. So mom talked to hospital staff, and they agreed to break the cost into a series of small payments. She wrote them a check for the first installment. <br> <br> <br> <br> A few hours later, I was standing at the truck stop where Greyhound buses boarded passengers. Mom gave me a hug and kiss, and as she drove off, I wondered how long the 500 miles ahead would feel with my wire-tied traveling bag and my throbbing finger I had to keep elevated to prevent swelling.<br> <br> <br> <br> A bus schedule was posted on the side of building. The next pick up time was 6PM, and I had a couple of hours. So I sat on my bag, ackwardly pointed my wrapped finger in the air, and waited. One hour turned into two, then three. No bus came. No one inside the truck stop had any explanation. As the evening darkened, I found a pay phone (yes, they had those back then too) and clumsily dialed the number to my grandmother. My parents didn’t have a phone at their house (I know, you can’t believe that either), so Grandma told me she’d drive down to tell them I needed help. As the evening darkened, I waited, and finally, one of my older brothers pulled up in his pick-up truck. <br> <br> <br> <br> “Man, you’ve had a hell of day, haven’t you,” he said as he threw my bag in the truck bed. “You sure you don’t want to stay back this semester and farm with me?” <br> <br> <br> <br> It was midnight by the time we made it to the house, and mom and dad already were in bed. I knew Dad would be the first one up in the morning, and I needed him to drive me back to the bus station before he headed to work. I’d lost a day of travel, and I couldn’t afford to another day, or I’d miss the start of the semester.<br> <br> <br> <br>
