Oh how helpless I feel…when I need help.

That sounds sort of stupid to say, but that about summed things up a few weeks ago when my car died maybe thirty feet from my front door. (Ah yes, the proximity of its visible inertia was immediately recognized as a small blessing.)

I pay Triple A $75.00 a year for the privilege of small discounts at hotels and car rental agencies and for “roadside service,” should it be required. Of course, my mind dwells on the “roadside service” aspect of this arrangement as the few times I have needed this kind of help, I am not sure how else I would have gotten out of a jam.

My relationship with my car is funny. I guess I identify with it in many ways. It is older than most cars I see on the road (a ’95 Civic), but it looks deceptively ageless. Even after racking up 110,000 miles on the odometer, I know its engine has life in it yet. Even though I use public transportation a lot, psychologically, having a working car and feeling free and independent seem intertwined. My car gets me where I want to go, and not having it in working order, and all the implications of car-less-ness, makes life seem difficult.

The car didn’t stall or idle or make an odd assortment of noises prior to it becoming immobile. I ran my non-mechanical mind over my driving history of the last couple days, as if I could diagnose what the problem was, pinpoint when it began, and then formulate some simple solution. (I.e., one that didn’t involved towing). I sat behind the wheel. I turned the key. No cranking noise. Nothing. I sat quietly in the car for a few minutes. I tried again – with no different result. I got a new battery less than a year ago. I was pretty sure my alternator was okay. I went inside my apartment and busied myself for several hours, perhaps trying to convince myself that if my car had enough time to gather itself, the engine would just turn over. Working from home was fine today, I thought. But, the next day, I had places to be and the following day there were places I had to be that I had to drive to.

I dumped out the contents of a zippered compartment of my purse and looked for my Triple A membership card. I called the 800 number for roadside assistance.

I got a very helpful call center specialist. I think she was from Iowa, definitely not the Philippines. She introduced herself and took down my phone number. She asked where the car was and had me describe the problem. She asked several reasonable questions, like whether the car had gas and what kind of noise it made when I turned the key. I explained that I didn’t want the car towed now, but rather, I wanted to have the car towed first thing in the morning, so I could get it to my mechanic as soon as they opened and then get on the subway so I could go to my office. They didn’t take orders as reservations for service at specific times, Lateesha explained. Instead of simply directing me to call back in the morning and report the problem again, she gave me a call ticket number and suggested a time when I should call back so I could get the car towed to my mechanic just as they were opening shop.

I called, as advised, at 6:45 AM. I referenced the call ticket number and the dispatcher had all the details from my previous night’s call in their computer. At 7:30, the truck was in front of my building. The service man politely asked me to fill out a few forms as he connected my car to his truck. “Could be a distributor problem,” he told me as I rode in the truck’s cab with him to Chicago Import Service. He deposited the car near their entrance and helped Alex and his crew move it out of the way of traffic. He smiled as he crawled back into the cab. “If Triple A sends you a little survey in the mail,” he exhaled, “Be sure to tell them I did a good job.”

Yes, Joe, thank you. Thank you, Lateesha. Thank you Alex. ( Alex had it ready for pick-up at the end of the day.)

Getting the exact kind of help you need, when you need it, without any feeling of judgment is no small thing.