April 29, 2008 5:06pm
The beloved was convinced he was dead or dying. He is usually very punctual, and after two hours of waiting, I too was beginning to fear that something untoward may have happened along the hour and a half drive from the farm to the airport, though my melodrama gene is somewhat less developed. So we were stuck at Adelaide airport, worrying for the health of the beloved's father, who I will call Slap for the purposes of this story. And I won't explain why I'll call him that.
We spoke to a couple of cops to see if they had any advice. The first guy was really unhelpful and said "I'm a federal police officer." Um, okay, great, thanks. The second guy was a federal police officer too, but he told us we'd have to ring the state police, and they'd be able to at least tell us if there'd been an major car accidents.
The first state police officer was equally unhelpful, and actually lectured me. "We are the police department, you know. If there's been an accident, we do everything we can to track down next of kin." Thanks, very reassuring. He said there hadn't been any accidents, but I didn't trust that he was actually looking at more than the daily tabloid. "Have you tried his mobile phone?" He hasn't got a mobile phone. Stunned silence.
I tried the RAA (nice people who help you with your broken down car and campaign rabidly in favour of freeways), but they were unable to tell me if a breakdown had been reported. "I'm sorry, the Privacy Act prevents us from telling you that." What if I ask questions and you say "no" or nothing? The beloved is freaking out here! "I'm sorry sir, the Privacy Act prevents me from doing that." He was friendly enough, but this was not helpful. "Have you tried his mobile phone?" Do I look like an idiot? Ok, I know you can't see what I look like but ...
The beloved tried the police again an hour later and got a woman, who was also a police officer, from the police department, but much more helpful. She said the old man had not been found in a car wreck as far as their records went but we should try the police in Elizabeth, the major town on the way down. The Elizabeth police (woman again, there's a trend) was also really helpful, but still no accidents. And he doesn't have a mobile phone, thank you. This is all good, of course, but brings us no closer to knowing what the hell is going on.
Next stop, the hospitals. Just as the beloved was launching into the explanation once again, up pulls a madly waving Slap. He was not driving his white Subaru Forrester, but a tiny grey hatch. If it had been yellow with spots, I would have expected a couple of dozen clowns to burst forth. Much relief! Joy, even! And all he would say was, "Rats!" We piled into the car and headed back to the farm. On the way, he told us what happened.
He'd left home with plenty of time to spare, being a punctual sort. About 30 minutes into the trip the temperature gauge skyrocketed, so he immediately pulled over. Investigation revealed a most uncharacteristic overheating. He waited for the car to cool down, replenished the water in the radiator, and limped very slowly into the next town, Roseworthy, where he called the RAA. The RAA told him they couldn't help him because of privacy reasons ... wait, no, they didn't, they sent a fellow out to look at the car, and if they'd been able to tell me that that's what they'd done the day would have been a lot less angsty. Said fellow was friendly and competent, and towed the car to Slap's garage in Gawler, 10 minutes away. A quick look revealed that the water pipe had been eaten through. "Rats," the competent and friendly fellow said, "This is going to take a while."
At this point in the story we pulled over and bought some fish from a woman named Madonna, who was selling it out of a refrigerated trailer. It's true.
The mechanic said he knew the owner of the local car rental place, and he gave him a call. The car rental chap happened to be nearby, so he picked Slap up in his BMW and drove him to the car lot, where Slap was able to hire a Suzuki Swift, in surprisingly good condition considering it was approaching 300,000 kilometres, at a very reasonable price. Showing much determination and with great haste, one might even say swiftly, Slap drove to the airport, arriving a little over two hours late, and not dead or dying.
A call from the mechanic a few days later revealed that the rats had eaten an enormous amount of the accessible non-metallic parts of the car. Who would have thought that a rat would get hungry enough to eat a car?
We're currently in the market for a mobile phone with large buttons and easily accessible speed dial. If you have any suggestions, let me know.