This is not a typical Beauty in Wrestling column. It’s just for kicks. Bear that in mind. Herein lies a true story of one of my many misadventures in New Jersey.
I’m cursed. I have angered the gods in some way. There’s so many. It’s hard to keep track of what offends who. In this case, I must not have listened to enough Bon Jovi or maybe called Thomas Edison a screaming dickhead because the state of New Jersey has it in for me. Every time I go there, something terrible happens. I get lost, I have a terrible time or ocassionally something more sinister. I have trouble going to New York City as well, but in terms of pure Hell, without a doubt, New Jersey takes it for me.
Here is one of many stories about my travels to New Jersey. Although, in this tale, that was not the destination. Only one of the states I went through. The goal was Massachussetts. More specifically, a Ring of Honor show. It was May 15th, 2004. I had been following ROH for nearly a year, and at that time, it wasn’t unheard of for me to drive from my home in Maryland all the way to Lexington, MA. There, I watched (from the front row, if I recall correctly) Round Robin Challenge III. Ricky “The Dragon” Steamboat made an appearance, the ROH Tag Team titles changed hands multiple times in one show and Homicide faced a returning Brian “Spanky” Kendrick.
It was a decent show. Nothing fantastic, though. I was feeling a little let down. I had fun, but the amount of fun I have at a show should be relatively proportional to the distance I drove to get there. Otherwise, it feels like a waste of time. After the show, I quickly made my way to my trusty Nissan Sentra, which I affectionately called “The Tank”. I wanted to get out early so to avoid traffic. I parked in front of a Denny’s (I think) near the building and hoped the owners wouldn’t mind my using their space. They didn’t, or at least didn’t care enough to have it removed, so I bolted out of Lexington in a flash.
What happened next requires a little backstory. Right before leaving Maryland, I put some oil into The Tank. I try to plan ahead, and I didn’t want any car trouble. Anyway, it was a long drive home, but as soon as I found the sign that said “Welcome to New Jersey”, I knew I’d be fine. Just ride the turnpike, head West, get home and go to sleep. I think it was past midnight at that point, and I was getting a little tired. No more than a minute after arriving in New Jersey, I felt something wrong with my car. It was slowing down. I didn’t know what was happening. I looked over my shoulder, swerved right and made it to the side of the road just before the Tank completely gave out. I turned off the engine (it was practically off anyway), pulled out the keys and asked myself what was going on. I tried the ignition. It didn’t start. “No!” I yelled to nobody in particular.
Like any other man who doesn’t really know much about engines but feels the need to try anyhow, I looked under the hood and studied what I saw. Shockingly, I realized the problem! Probably the first and only time I’ve ever figured out anything technical in nature about my car. I forgot to put the top back on when I put in the oil! So, all the oil spilled out gradually over the course of my very, very long trip. “I’m out of oil,” I groaned.
In a great stroke of luck, I broke down within walking distance of some construction workers. When the traffic died down, I ran across the road to speak with them. One of them had a phone and called for roadside assistance. Nice fella. I waited for what felt like forever, but finally a young man pulled up and began to work on my car. I informed him of my foolish mistake, and he told me that people forget to put the cap back on all the time. He gave me some oil and said that should do it. I thanked him, but just before he pulled away, I asked him to wait until I try to see if it worked. I turned the key…and it still didn’t start. After trying half a dozen other methods of restarting my car, the mechanic said that the oil must’ve burned the engine or something because there was no response from it no matter what he did. After a few more minutes, he walked over to me, and like a surgeon who lost a patient on the operating table, told me that my car was dead. In fact, he was more broken up about it than I was. I guess he takes his profession very seriously. I thanked him for his efforts and asked him to call a tow truck for me. He obliged, apologized again and left.
The Tank and I had some good times. I could’ve believe he was gone, but I would have to mourn later. Another eternity later, a tow truck pulled up next to the recently deceased Tank. A man walked out. An ugly man. A heavily tattooed man. A smelly man. A man that you only think appears in horror movies as that guy who you really hope the psycho killer will murder first for being so creepy. I don’t remember his name. Actually, he may have never told me it. For the purposes of this story, I will call him The Big Stink. I can think of no other. Stink shook my hand with his sweaty palms. I noticed some marijuana leaf tattoos on his arms as well as even less flattering ones. I questioned him on how much it would cost to send my car to Maryland. The figure was astronomical, which is what I expected. I just had to ask because I didn’t want to spend much more time in New Jersey. He knew of a mechanic who could take the car nearby, so we got the car hooked up, I hopped into the front seat and we took off.
We came to a toll booth. There are more toll booths in Jersey than every other state combined. As we pulled in, he whispered to me “Watch me cheat this nigger out of the toll.” Ugh. This was not going to be a pleasant ride. He actually tried to tell the African-American toll worker that he did not need to pay the toll which could not have been more than a couple dollars. Stink did not get away with it. A few minutes later, Stink and I were talking about what had happened and what had brought this far from Maryland. I told him about Ring of Honor. Stink had previously watched WWF but stopped after Steve Austin and The Rock weren’t hot anymore. I tried to explain what I did (at the time, I worked exclusively for Rajah.com and not the Oratory) and the review I planned to write for the show I had just seen. He did not seem to understand, so I tried saying nothing. He interrupted my silence by asking what Austin was up to. I told him that he had recently been accused of beating his wife. Stink found that very amusing.
As we came closer to our destination, Stink ran a few red lights. I was getting a little nervous and mentioned that he just ran a light. I forget his reply but it probably wasn’t complimentary. Finally, we arrived at the fix-it place in Hackensack, New Jersey. Before that day, I wasn’t one hundred percent sure that Hackensack was a real town. It sounds too funny to really exist. Stink had me sign a few papers. He then informed me of the many ways to cheat the insurance companies and also the man who was about to either fix or scrap my car. I nodded along. Stink bid me farewell and drove off into the night.
I spent the next several hours waiting for the sun to come up and for the garage to open. When it was bright enough, I walked over to a convenience store/gas station. I needed an address of where I was so that I could use a pay phone to have someone pick me up. I generally use MapQuest when travelling, and so long as I had an address, I could have someone in Maryland find me by typing it into the directions program. The clerk spoke in an odd mix of a Jersey and Indian accent. Once we got through the dialect difference, he informed me that he didn’t know the address of the gas station. His superior did but couldn’t tell me the name of the street. Only the route number. Close enough.
I tried the pay phone nearby. I dropped in what little change I had. It didn’t work. There was a loud static as well as someone’s muffled voice on the other end. Next pay phone. That one barely worked but it was good enough to try. I phoned a few family members collect. I didn’t have any change left. Only dollar bills. I finally found one who would be willing to drive to New Jersey to get me the Hell out of there. I talked to the mechanic and signed some more papers. I waited in the grass for a few hours until I realized I was sitting dangerously close to a used band-aid with blood on it. I schooched over and waited on the sidewalk. A familiar car finally pulled up and we hauled ass back to Maryland.
That’s it. No moral to the story. The Tank is dead. He has gone wherever good cars go. I have a new Sentra called Louise. I’m taking good care of her, and by that, I mean I don’t take her anywhere near New Jersey.
Happy Halloween.
