The Dairy Queen Rock Debacle (or, how I put my car on a rock without even trying…)

I’d like to put this out there. I had a rough start to my driving career, all those years ago. Within the first six months of having my license, I got into two accidents (both I like to think were not my fault, but let’s face it… they probably were). The Saturn I had paid $2500 for was in the shop two days after purchase because I rear-ended a jeep and crumpled my hood… From then on, Precious (yes, she had a name) was known as the $5000 “$2500″ car, since I had to pay the same amount to fix it as I did to purchase.

That all being said, I’ve had a pretty clean track record since those days… well, if you don’t count speeding tickets. I’ve got a lead foot, but then, who doesn’t? That clean track record came crashing down around me roughly a year ago, one fateful night in a Dairy Queen Parking lot. Long story short, what happened was as follows:

I finished work one Friday night, with the intention of picking Mary Beth (a friend of mine) up to go see her fiance and his band play at a bar in Manayunk. Being the responsible automobile owner that I am, I stopped at a BP to put air in my tires, as they were looking a little low. Rather than pulling out of the parking lot and driving around the block to get where I needed to be, I thought cutting through the DQ lot to get to the backroads would be a BRILLIANT plan. Right. Not so much.

What I failed to realize, was that the owners of the property the BP, DQ, and other various establishments sit upon had recently installed some of the most pointless decorative landscaping shit ever. Large rocks were strategically placed in these “installments.” This is where the fun begins.

Turning out of the BP and into the DQ, I hit the curb of one of these installments. Marilyn, my 1996 Subaru Legacy was having some transmission issues. When I put the car in reverse to back off the curb, it didn’t go directly into gear. What it did do, however, when I put my foot on the gas, was propel forward, and launch me onto this huge rock- you know, one of the decorative pieces of landscaping. Not realizing what happened, or why my car was now leaning heavily to the left, I pushed the gas even harder, only to find I was spinning wheels. At this point, the crowd at DQ had realized what was happening (mind you, in perfect weather, this place was PACKED). I get out of my car, and realize I’m stuck. My car looks like some sort of attraction you’d see at Universal Studios, or maybe a piece of abstract art. Words cannot do justice, so here’s the photo:

Yes, ladies and gents, this actually happened.

As you can see, there was NO way I was getting this car down by any effort of my own. At this point, I did what any 24 year old would. I called my dad. The conversation went something like this:

Me: “Hey Dad. Um, my car is kind of stuck, can you come help me?”

Dad: “What do you mean stuck?”

Me: “Well, it’s probably better if you just see it. I’m at the DQ in Springfield.”

Dad: “Jesus Christ. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

My next call was to Mary Beth. Keep in mind, she has known me since the ripe old age of three when we met in preschool. I’ve known her family just as long, and they have been regaled with tales of the sheer absurdity that is my life, so it came as no surprise when I told her she needed to get to DQ as soon as she could, because I had no words to describe what I had done to my car. Upon arrival, she simply laughed her ass off and took pictures… but then, what are friends for?

Looking back, I should have taken pictures of my dad’s face when he got to the scene. The first words out of his mouth were, “Even if I send her pictures, your mother isn’t going to believe this.” After much deliberation, we realized we needed a flatbed to get my car down. The company AAA sent must not screen their employees, because the driver that arrived had every suggestion in the book for getting my car down that would involve maximum damage. The crowd that had gathered immediately began shooting him down and interjecting their own ideas, including having some hulking man pick the car up by sheer strength and set it gently on the ground. Eventually, my dad sternly instructed the driver what needed to be done, and my car was back on four wheels where it belonged.

Mary Beth and I made it to the bar that night. When we got there, we apologized to our friends for our lateness, telling them there was an issue at DQ with my car. Ian, who was home from California, simply said he understood. My response of “Oh no, I’m not sure you do,” was met with the reply, “I was there and saw it. I have pictures, too.”

Yes folks. this is the shit that actually happens to me. To commemorate the experience, below is a pic of me with “my rock” roughly a year later… at least I have a sense of humor, right?