Read The Map

Note to self: When departing on a cross country trip, read the map FIRST.
The 11 AM California sun was already beating down in full force, something to which I’d only recently grown accustomed; 11 AM to 6 PM in California is like Noon to 3 PM back east, and today in particular had an additional haze to it. As I stashed my bottles of Dasani into every available nook and cranny in the passenger seat, I reinforced my undiagnosed OCD and surveyed the dashboard for all necessities to get me started (notice I didn’t say, “finished”). With a flutter in my chest, I sighed heavily as I pulled out onto Main Street and passed the few sights that had become familiar to me: the merchants I frequented, my drycleaners, the mall…all soon to become memories as I took the exit for Route 126 toward Santa Paula (at least that’s what the AAA map “triptik” said to do).
I became immediately conscious of the direction I was heading, largely due to the sun’s apex. The ocean was behind me now, and mountains were in front. I was heading east. Considering that I’d only ever headed north and south in the sleepy town of Ventura, it took me a minute to get my bearings. “Here you go,” I thought, “once again to the point of no return. Don’t look back.” The mountains continued to loom ahead, and after about an hour, became much more detailed in their appearance. But then I was to take a detour, according to the map, to find my way to I-15, which, ultimately, would lead me to Las Vegas.
The first couple of connecting routes seemed to regurgitate me onto similar back roads, and I thought at times I was going in circles…these areas were really back road Americana with their convenience store shacks, fruit stands, scrap metal yards, and…telephone poles. Miles and miles and miles of telephone poles. Dirt roads would suddenly become tar, then would abruptly break into dirt patches again…I consulted the map frequently; I had not made a wrong turn, despite my concerns at seeing several road signs that looked like they had been absconded from the M*A*S*H sound stage. I was about two hours into my trip when I pulled over at a particularly more appealing convenience shack than some of the others I’d seen…that’s when I noticed my temperature gauge was starting to run hot.
Oh boy. Please, no.
The shack clerk had to be all of 15, with her hair drawn up in a scrunchie right out a Madonna video, with a mismatched plaid shirt tied at the ribs and leggings. She was clearly irked at the customer before me, a dingy maven with matted straw hair, who was only asking for a water cup. I suppose every part of the world has its pecking order, but this seemed a bit off to me, and I offered one of my Dasanis to the woman, who politely declined, opting instead for a triangulated paper cup from the clerk. Feeling a fish out of water, I paid for my sundries and checked the temp gauge and the map. I could not see a reliable AAA recommended auto shop for another sixty miles. I imagined having a rosary.
An hour later, I got turned around by poor signage trying to merge onto I-15, and wound up heading south…a bit of a blessing when I realized it, really, for off the exit I chose to turn around, I was astonished to survey my choice of auto body shops…one after another after another. I started to head towards a recognizable shop, but the mechanic said they only did quick fixes, not diagnostics, so he directed me across the lot to MJ’s Japanese Auto…a fitting welcome to my Mazda.
MJ was a typically short middle aged man of Asian descent, who listened intently as I explained my cross country plight, the history on Jesse’s Girl, and my concern about overheating. He pointed to his rate sheet and headed to the hood of the truck as I simultaneously filled out paperwork for him. While he tinkered away, I called my mother to relay that I was on my way and would be in Vegas by nightfall. I didn’t even hint at the fact that I might have a major problem under the hood; I simply couldn’t even begin to imagine explaining THAT.
MJ broke his silence in an equally broken Asian accent, explaining that the radiator cap was not fitted properly with the right size air/release hole (whatever that meant), and I would need a new one. He called for a moose of a man working in the shop on another import, and sent him over to one of the adjacent shops to pick one up. While waiting, he did a quick radiator flush (I later learned this is usually a very expensive task). After Moose returned, he showed me the new cap, and explained the difference in the vent holes…personally I couldn’t tell, but clearly, he felt it made a difference.
While he calculated his labor, he explained that he would not be able to provide me with a receipt as his printer was down, but he assured me that he would send the receipt to my new address back east. While I was at first immediately suspicious, I was also quickly reassured that if he was going to send a receipt there, he was confident that I would MAKE it there.
Expecting a hefty bill, I looked at the charges of $56.84 in disbelief. He wished me well on my journey, and said I should not have anymore potential overheating problems… “smooth sail,” said he.
That was good to know. I was about to hit the Mojave desert…at two in the afternoon.