David's Inferno by David Blistein Page A

other customers a hard time. The dinner’s $4.50. I leave a $2 tip.
    Now I’m driving off into the sunrise on Route 219 toward Johnstown, and then cutting over toward Altoona which I can see in the valley off Route 99. Another town. Another world. Another universe I’ll never explore. Later, as I drive along Route 220, barely avoiding Penn State, I’m confronted by a series of signs that give me pause: “Beware of Aggressive Drivers.” “Beware ofTailgating.” “Keep two dots apart.” (Don’t ask.) Culminating in: “Attention Drivers: High Crash Area.” They have no idea.
    After 230 miles, I stop at the Turkey Hill Convenience Store in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania to get gas. My last stop. Just over 200 miles to Vermont. I fill the van, check the oil and transmission fluid one last time, and go into the store to buy a protein bar, Smart-Food, and a bottle of Starbucks coffee with a big cup of ice (the only alternative when you can’t find the local coffee shop).
    I come back out, get into the van, take a big bite of the protein bar, open the popcorn, and turn the key. The van doesn’t start.
    I try to stay calm. Maybe I’m not in “Park.” Yes I am in “Park.” Try again. The van doesn’t start. Try neutral. Nothing.
    I remember how we used to crawl under our old 1970 Volvo and tap the starter with a hammer. I find the crowbar and work my way under the van. Can’t find the starter. Check the manual. It doesn’t know where the starter is either. Call my repair guy back home. He tells me it’s pretty hard to get at the starter without pulling out the engine or transmission or something equally intimidating.
    I get back in the van and turn the key. Nothing. I take three deep breaths. Nothing. I try ten breaths. Nothing. I get out and start walking toward the store. Turn around and try again. Nothing.
    I tell myself not to panic. That it’s okay. What’s one more day after three weeks? I don’t believe myself for a minute. This is apocalypse now. I go in and ask the cashier if there’s a repair shop nearby. She points to a tire place just a few doors down, which I’d managed not to notice.
    I go back and try to start the car again. Nothing.
    Reluctantly, I go over to the shop and point at the van. They say they can probably tow it over and take a look later in the day. “Later in the day???” They say not to worry … if it needs a starter, they can definitely get one tomorrow. “Tomorrow???”
    I hand him the key.
    I decide that I should go for a bike ride to calm my nerves. Oddly, there’s a bike shop two doors down from the tire place. I stop in to see if they have a bike map. They don’t, but give me precise directions for getting to an area where the biking is good. Unfortunately,I can’t pay attention. I’m on the verge of hyperventilating.
    I go back to the van. Realize I have a spare key in my backpack. What the heck. Put the key in the ignition. Visualize all manner of positive things. Nothing.
    Call Wendy. Tell her I guess I won’t be back that night. She’s disappointed, but seems a lot more concerned with how I’m taking it than how she’s taking it. If I were her, I’d be relieved that I had one more day of peace before my deranged spouse walked in the door. To her credit, I don’t hear that in her voice.
    I go into the store to apologize for the fact that my car will be stuck there until they tow it. They tell me no problem. (No problem for them maybe.) Go back to the van. Try to start it. Nothing.
    I decide to go for a walk before biking. That way I can keep an eye on the van in case it suddenly decides to start itself up and drive over to pick me up and go home. I start walking up a steep hill in a prototypical working-class neighborhood. No one is around—everyone is at work.
    At the top, I can see the whole town. Doesn’t look