My vacation in numbers

After 2 planes, 1 wedding, and 5 hours driving,

the timing belt snaps on my brother’s

1 week old

new used car.

We call Triple A

(who transfers me to myself)

and at long last a tow truck driver named Noah -

bald, yellow vest, tribal tattoo snaked around his bicep -

pulls us the last 70 miles to the Outerbanks.

He tells us his horror stories as we ride,

4 people in a 3 seat cab,

ducking at stop lights to avoid

suspicion of the Highway Patrol.

“My dispatch is bad with mile markers and

they hate when I have to tow people.”

“But that’s the service people pay for,” I say.

“They know that.  But it’s a liability thing.

They don’t have to look at the stranded people and

tell them no.”

He turns off his walkie talkie and

turns on his GPS.

“And that, kids, is why we’re going to Nags Head.”

He smiles and I see myself reflected in his sunglasses.

I smile back.

Noah used to work at underground oil drilling,

and at least there he knew

what would kill him.

As a tow truck driver

it could be anything:

hurricanes, big rigs,

people who mistake him for the Repo man.

Noah tells us about the longest

2 hours and 14 minutes of his life,

towing an angry couple to the shore.

“It was so painful I can remember

the exact time it took,” he says.

He tells us he sped through that one, but

you’ll never, ever,

see a tow truck get pulled over.

“Cops look for things that are wrong,

but they don’t know what to look for,” he says.

“Plus you’re helping people,” my brother says.

“You’re doing the right thing.”

“Yeah,” Noah says.  “Yeah.”

When we get closer, Noah points out

the best BBQ on the island, places to see.

And then he drops us off and he’s gone,

leaving us 7 days

6 ocean swims

5 bug bites

4 cans of sunscreen

3 planes

2 plane rides

and 1 thunderstorm to go.

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