After the film festival had ended, I was dropped off in the parking lot to make that pilgrimage past my work to the golf cart. I call it a pilgrimage not because of the distance it would take, roughly 40 feet, but because I had just put in my two week’s resignation notice along with a letter to the store manager that basically said "you’ve made my life miserable" in three and a half pages. But this story isn’t about my job, or two week’s notice, or anything like that—it’s about the golf cart and my encounters therein. So I walked to the golf cart, plaintively resting at the end of the parking lot, looking as though it was sick of watching the cars on the adjacent street drive by. I immediately threw my backpack in the trunk and headed out, around the trashcans so as not to be seen by any employee. By the time I exited the parking lot, along with a feeling of undeniable relief just to be away from that situation for a while, there was also a feeling of undeniable anxiety, for as I looked down at the electric gauge on the cart, it had somehow meandered down to 25. This was certainly not enough gas to get me back home, but I had to try. I could not stand to go back to work with a brokedown vehicle. I’d rather run out of electricity and suffer the consequences—which I did.
Up around a quarter mile into the ride home, the cart started going slowly, slower with each passing second. When I came to a stope sign, the cart clicked off, unable to move. It had given up and I was jealous. I looked to the right of me, seeing nothing but a long stretch of empty desolation; houses with no life to them. I looked to the left of me, noticing a police car about a block away. Surely it will stop my way, see that I’m in trouble and assist me, I thought. Either that or it will hassle me about my age which, unbeknownst to them was completely legal, and the time of night which, at that point, it was around 11:30. It did neither of the aforementioned tasks. As I looked more closely, I saw it had pulled someone over and, after that person left, it followed, leaving me stranded, in the middle of a residential intersection—nothing, nowhere, no one.
Being the rookie navigator of that residential community that I was, I just realized that I had already taken a wrong turn so not only was I out of electricity, I was also somewhat lost. I pushed the cart to the other side of the intersection with all my might—struggling to get the cart up the narrow hill which, when pushing a golf-cart, seems like Wudan Mountain. I continued pushing until about halfway down the street, when I realized I had come to a dead-end. All that pushing for nothing. Rather than becoming insanely enraged with my circumstances, I chose to laugh. I was the hero befallen with one calamity after another. The Wile E. Coyote that would fly off a cliff or get smashed over the head with an anvil, but pop back up, accordian style, and devise another grand scheme.
My grand scheme was this—I would find a house that had an outlet, plug my cart into the outlet, sit, and wait for the cart to become charged again, hoping that the home owner did not come out with a shotgun. After all, this is Arizona, home of crazy redneck gun freaks. And it was also nearing midnight.
So I walked up and down countless blocks searching for the right house—maybe one with a car with a greenpeace bumper sticker on it. No such luck. The closest I came was a beat up chevy with a "I support the Oklahoma State Police" bumper sticker. That house was to be avoided at all costs.
About this time, a red convertible drove down the street, it seemed like a camero. It was a camero, but of course, I didn’t know that yet.
Then, a turquois convertible drove down the street, stopped roughly fifteen feet in front of where I had given up pushing my golf cart, threw itself into reverse, and sped off the other way. I would not have given any thought to this action if not for the fact that it was midnight, I was lost, and my golf-cart was broken down.
I decided to walk down the other way, to the right of the original stop sign, sheerly out of boredom. It was there that I saw the same turquois convertible stopping, going, and stopping some more. It’s probably just drunk people, I thought. But this rationalization didn’t calm me down any. After the car had pulled out of my sight, a silvery-blue sedan drove by, slowly, as the driver stared at me. I felt his eyes penetrating my circumstance. He will be of no help, I thought. I must find an outlet.
I decided to walk back to my golf cart, still stranded next to a random house. As I walked, I figured that I had outlasted all other options and I would plug it into an outlet from the house the cart happened to be next to. I would take my chances, I thought. It was the same rationalization people get when they have to do a huge project for work. When the projects begins, dilusions of grandure set it. As time travels by, the dilusions fade and things begin to compromise. By the end, the project is nothing like it turns out and every aspect has been compromised. Eventually, there comes a time when we lower our standards enough just to get out of a mess. I had reached that point.`
But as I searched for the outlet, I came up empty. I had no desire to scavage every front porch for an outlet, so, out of hopelessness, I decided to try starting the cart. Miraculously, it turned on. I immediately headed back in the direction I came, back to the stop sign. I turned left, which would have been the desolate right from before, but it was the wrong turn—it poured onto the main road. So I headed the other way, where the police officer had been, where he had left, where he was long gone.
As I got back to the stop sign, the cart sputtered and broke down again. It was a valiant attempt on the part of the golf-cart, but it had gotten me nowhere. I pushed the cart over to the curb and sat down beside it, with the feeling of abandonment nestled deep in my stomach. Random cars pass by me, glaring at me, trying to figure me out. I don’t get it, why aren’t they helping me, I wondered. Then I realized, I wouldn’t have helped me either. Then the same silvery-blue sedan drove by, with the gazing driver. I put my hands on my knees and buried my head. How will I explain this to the folks, I thought.
Then I looked up and notice the silvery-blue sedan turning around. It pulled next to me and my once valiant golf-cart.
"What’s wrong?" the driver asked. He was in his early twenties. Hispanic. Shaved head. Small goatee.
"My golf cart ran out of electricity." I told him in a voice that seemed to convey both sorrow and ecstacy.
I explained how the golf cart works and we devised a plan. We would simply push it back to his house where we would plug it in, wait for it to recharge, and I would be on my way.
Why is a complete stranger who has no vested interest in anything I do willing to help me get home, I wondered, wanting to ask him this very question. It came out, "So what do you do?"
"Oh, I’m a student. I go to community college. I also work for my dad’s contracting agency. How old are you anyway?"
"I’m 18."
"Oh, good. In case a cop stops us, you won’t be breaking curfew."
By this time, we had successfully pushed the cart onto his driveway, where we plugged in the outlet. Around this time, he introduced himself to me as Gabe. His brother, who was still up at midnight washing his Jeep, was named Vince. Both extrodinarily nice individuals.
As the cart charged, we talked about school, which teachers we had—it turns out we all went to the same high school. We also talked about work, my work, Levi’s earrings, them renting softcore pornography, Vince not wanting to go to his ten year high school reunion, Vince being in the middle of a divorce, me having given my two-week’s notice, Sammy "the bull" Gravano being their neighbor, Eddie Basha’s son being their next door neighbor, Gabe having driven a camero convertible not five minutes before he got into his silvery-blue sedan, the porn shop that was being built across the street from my house, and everything in between. Gabe offered me a drink but I tastefully declined. I didn’t want to mooch off the hospitality of such generous people.
When the golf cart seemed to be charged enough to adequetely bring me home, I bid farewell, thanking them tremendously for their kindness. The ride home was extremely cold and even as I type this, my fingers are numb.
And when I pulled the golf cart into the driveway, it shut off before I could pull in all the way in to my garage. So there it sits right now—at the end of my driveway, completely out of electricity.
But at least I made it home, for I would not have done it without Gabe and Vince, the two nicest strangers I have ever met.