That One Time I Played Human Frogger On I-15

5:15am. Monday morning. I woke up at this ungodly hour on this ungodly day to drive my brother, Caleb, to Provo for knee surgery. Both of us--temporarily homeless--were crashing at my grandparents' house in American Fork (about twenty minutes up the road).

I had originally intended to sleep in the car till he was out of surgery, but upon hearing that that wouldn't be until 10:00, I drove back to American Fork to put on makeup. (One of the errands I had on my docket that morning was getting a new driver's license, and I'll be DAMNED if every cashier I meet for the next ten years gets to look at 5AM-Kristi-face.) 

After prettification, I went to leave Grandma's house only to discover that the car I'd planned on taking--her old Honda Odyssey--was boxed in by a Ukulady. Every Monday morning my grandma hosts a ukulele class for all her friends. They get together and strum old songs for a couple hours, with their cute creaky voice singing along. Oh we're goiiiiiiing to the hukilau . . . the huki huki huki . . . Believe it or not, they actually tour around Utah playing at senior centers, city hall meetings, and the like. They're called the Little Old Ukuladies.

Well, one of these sweet Ukuladies had parked her Buick right behind Grandma's Odyssey. Brock had our truck at work, and Caleb had the keys to his Prius at the hospital. My only remaining option was Grandpa's 1988 GMC truck.

I was reluctant to take it (no power steering, dust everywhere, torn up seats, no AC, no radio, muffler LITERALLY hanging on by a thread under the car), but I figured it'd be a quick trip so there was no use in disturbing the Ukuladies. Away they strummed.

Caleb came out of surgery and the nurse gave him his first dose of Percocet. As we drove away in the car, I felt small jerks as it shifted from first to second gear. I thought I was being too quick with the clutch release, so I eased up during subsequent shifts. The jerks persisted. As I exited onto the freeway, I relaxed: No more shifting--just fifth gear cruising all the way to AF.

About five minutes down the road, the truck sputtered to a stop IN THE MIDDLE OF THE INTERSTATE.  I panicked as I watched the speedometer tick down . . . 65 . . . 50 . . .40 . . . 25 . . . 10 . . . what was going on!? Did this have anything to do with that dangling muffer?! Where are the hazard lights!?! Am I out of gas?! I watched in terror as cars in my rearview mirror sped towards me. Luckily, the one directly behind me slowed down and changed lanes as I waved it off. We rolled to a stop in the far right-hand lane of I-15 . . . better than the far left-hand lane, but we certainly weren't safe. Two hundred yards down the road, our lane turned into an exit that a lot of people wanted to use.

So there was my brother--ONE HOUR OUT OF SURGERY, ON PAINKILLERS--directing traffic away from our car WITH HIS CRUTCHES. He stood near the back of the car while I took off running TOWARD oncoming traffic. By the time most cars even saw  Caleb, they would have to slam  on the brakes. To give them more of  heads up, I ran down further so they'd see me waving them off first.

Keep in mind: I did all this in a pleated skirt.

Thankfully, it only took about two minutes before a police car parked a little ways behind us with his flashing lights on, which at least gave us safety from the back. During  those two minutes, however, a rollicking game of Air Traffic Controller quickly turned into Human Frogger as I found myself jumping up onto the highway's side-barrier and sucking in my stomach to avoid being run over by an eighteen-wheeler. NOT HOW I'D PLANNED ON SPENDING MY MORNING. I found myself wishing  I was at the DMV.

In the process of all this, a young man named Steven parked his truck front of ours. He had chains with him and volunteered to tow us to the exit where we could at least pull over into an emergency lane. As Steven talked, I noticed Caleb's eyes glazing over. He was going to pass out, so I shoved him in the car and accepted Steven's help without thinking twice.

As soon as he started towing us, the policeman sped up and started yelling something from his loudspeaker. I couldn't hear what he was saying over the roar of traffic. He pulled up right next to Steven it became apparent that this cop was angry.  By that time we were at the exit, so we parked in the emergency lane to see what was wrong. Steven confronted the officer.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING, DRIVING SO SLOW ON AN EXIT?!? YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO TOW! THIS CHAIN IS TWICE AS LONG AS IT SHOULD BE! UNHOOK YOUR VEHICLE!"

"Dude," said Steven, "CAN'T YOU SEE THAT I'M JUST TRYING TO HELP THESE POOR GUYS?! HER BROTHER HAD KNEE SURGERY AN HOUR AGO!! WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO, JUST LEAVE THEM BE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE INTERSTATE!? WHY ARE YOU BEING SUCH A DICK?!!?"

This continued for a good thirty seconds until I realized that the increasing slew of obscenities was getting us nowhere. "GUYS. GUYS. IT'S FINE, IT'S FINE! STEVEN, thanks for your help. Let's unhook the cars. Officer, there's a gas station right there. Let me go buy a couple gallons real quick."

I thanked Steven again profusely as he started unhooking his chain, and then sped off down the dirt ditch separating me from a Phillips 66.

Keep in mind: I did all of this in ballet flats.

I came back to the car with gas container in hand, only to see a very  groggy Caleb standing near the officer on his crutches. What was he doing out of the car?!

"You're........." Caleb said as he drew closer, "..... a diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick."

As if I didn't have enough to deal with, now my drugged-up brother was verbally assaulting highway patrol. I rolled my eyes and sent him back to the passenger seat, but not before the officer responded "Well, so are you!"

THOUGHT BUBBLE: Really, cop?? You probably get called a dick at least once a day and the best comeback you have is "So are you????????????????????????????" 

Anyway, now that my drugged-up brother had pissed off this power-tripped pig, it was my job put that college degree of mine to use by unleashing the only skill my liberal arts degree gave me: KISSING ASS. He hinted at writing me up because APPARENTLY it's illegal to run out of gas in Utah (????), so as I poured the gas in my tank I talked about how I knew he was just doing his job (LIE--unless "BE THE BIGGEST ASSHOLE EVER" is in his job description, in which case he needs a raise), this was my first time driving the truck (LIE), and how I appreciated him for keeping my safe (LIE: Steven did that).

Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit, it worked. He let me off despite the less-than-complimentary adjectives that Steven and Señor Percocet had thrown his way. By that time my grandparents had arrived at the exit, so we hopped in their Odyssey to complete our, well, odyssey  home. Grandpa drove the GMC directly to a mechanic.

I sat in the van and waited for my heart rate to return to normal. My feet were covered in dirt, my brow was sweaty, and my hands reeked of gasoline. I wanted to burst into tears but didn't let myself-- I needed to appear strong for potential sponsors back at the Capitol.

No rest for the wicked: As soon as I washed up at Grandma's, I floored it to Salt Lake City to put a deposit on the apartment I wanted. Another interested party was coming to put a deposit on it at 1:00. I arrived at 12:45.

Good thing we didn't fill Caleb's prescription for Percocet on our way out of Provo. Because if we had, I definitely  would've popped one or two or seven.

*** EPILOGUE ***

It was interesting to see myself react to a crisis/life-threatening situation. This is what happens:

1. Seconds 1-10: OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
2. 11 seconds and onward: KATNISS EFFING EVERDEEN

Also, two days before this incident, in my maiden voyage with the truck, Grandpa took me out and showed me all its idiosyncrasies, NEGLECTING TO TELL ME  that there were NO HAZARD LIGHTS and that THE FUEL GAUGE WASN'T ACCURATE. 

But hey, I know that you can  get one  radio station if you tweak the dial just so.