Loan car

Monday night I posted on Facebook that I needed a loan car. I was taking mine into the shop to have new CV shafts installed in the morning. I had work at opposite sides of town throughout the day, and an appointment for my first Pfizer vaccine at the airport clinic, so I needed transport.

’I could be your Uber driver for a couple of hours’ my stepmother Rosemary messaged.

I suspected it was out of her way and I didn’t want a private taxi so I declined the offer. On Rosemary’s advice I started a Car Next Door account but membership verification was taking longer than expected.

A friend, Jacob, replied to my Facebook post:

‘Yep got a manual Ute you can borrow. Bayswater.’

I’m not sure when I first met Jacob. A few years back I watched him push in line beside me at the bar to order his drink. We started talking and got along. He has a footballer charm about him, with his hawk-like eyes, short beard and plain spoken manner. He’s better groomed than most of my friends with his buttoned shirts and modern pompadour.

‘You have good friends offering to help like that’ Rosemary messaged.

I messaged Jacob:

‘hey, would love to borrow the ute if okay. will fill ’er up’.

He replied:

‘I’ll leave the keys in a spot for you in case I’m asleep or out.’

I dropped off my car at the mechanic at 7:30 the next morning and then took an Uber to Jacob’s house. He’d sent a message around midnight:

‘Doors of the ute open, might sound obvious but gotta have the clutch in even in neutral gear to start. I’m not sure I’ll be up so just go for it and take the Ute. Easy as brother.’

I arrived at Jacob’s and found his car reverse parked in the driveway ready for takeoff. A Holden Ute Flexiglass Canopy circa the turn of the century. Jacob ran a business making signage for sports events and I supposed this was his work car.

A last message from Jacob read,

‘Back of the canopy open, key on a lanyard.’

I retrieved the key, walked to the driver’s side and opened the door. On the passenger-side floor were two basketballs. The car was otherwise tidy. The dark canopy behind obscured my rear view some but otherwise the car seemed good. I reached to close the door and realized that the door trim was completely missing. It was exposed metal. I only needed the car for the day so didn’t pay it much heed. I closed the door, put the clutch in, turned the key and the engine purred.

A gentle rain began so I switched on the wipers. I observed the tank was empty and made a mental note to stop and get petrol. I had an hour before I had to leave for work so decided to head to my home in Maylands to relax. The rain turned to downpour so I switched the wipers up a gear. I made my way across Crowther to Willamson and down to a T-junction midway down a hill at Garrat road where I waited for a break in the traffic. Then the engine died.

I put the clutch in and turned the key—nothing. I pumped the accelerator, turned the key again—it started. I looked at the fuel gauge and the arrow rose a notch indicating at least a few litres in the tank. The line of traffic broke and I drove out to cross when the engine stalled again. The next cluster of cars were already bearing down on me. I frantically tried the key—nothing. I took the stick out of gear, pumped the clutch, turned the key and it started. I put it back into first, accelerated, let my foot off the clutch and found myself flying backwards. I gasped, braked and heard a metal thud. The car stalled a third time.

The rain drummed on the roof and water streamed down the windows. I was clear from the traffic, somewhere back over the line at the start of the T-junction. In the rearview mirror I could see a glow from a car’s headlights. I bit softly on my bottom lip and peered over at my side mirror. I could make out cars behind me but it wasn’t clear how close they were, or whether I’d hit one.

“Fuck,” I said, deciding to see for myself.

I went to open my door but realized that there was no door handle on the inside. I went to wind down the window and realized there was no winder, no switch. Just some holes in the metal, a few thin rods. I pulled on the rod but it had no effect. I pushed my fingers into the holes and felt some loose wires but couldn’t find anything that met the handle. I put my hand on the door window like a desperate mime. It was held by lengths of duct tape but it didn’t budge.

I turned to face the passenger side. I’d crawl over and let myself out. I stopped, as I noticed the space where the push button lock had obviously been removed. There was a door handle at least -I tried the handle -but it was locked. There was no window mechanism on this door either.

I waited a few minutes for someone to come and see my predicament. Nobody came, so I started the engine. The wipers sprang to action. I looked down at the six-speed gear stick and this time put it in first. I moved forward a few inches. There were no horns or other signs of protest. Maybe I hadn’t hit any car. Maybe something in the back had simply moved when I braked. A space opened, I floored the pedal, rode the clutch, the engine moaned, and I was clear of the crossing and on my way. I checked my mirrors to see if there were any signs of collision. I didn’t see any, but traffic was heavy and the rain hadn’t let up so visibility was poor.

I considered stopping in at the Bates Motel for a sandwich and a glass of milk but decided to go straight home.

I parked the Ute at the end of our driveway between two housemates’ cars. I turned the engine off and took the keys out from the ignition switch. I tried again to put my hands in the holes of the door and feel around for a lever. I had no luck. I tried the rods again, they moved but they didn’t seem to have any effect.

I reached for my phone and called Jacob. It rang out.

I texted him,

‘Dude, how do I get out of this fucking car?’

No response. I guessed he was asleep. I messaged my housemates but I guessed they were asleep also.

My breath was causing condensation on the glass. I could smell burnt rubber from riding the clutch and mild claustrophobia set in. I suddenly felt hot and took off my hoodie. I contemplated the balls on the floor and wondered if there were a fire maybe I could use the balls to play one final game before my charred remains were found by my housemates. I turned back to the driver door, plunged my hand inside the void, found the metal rod and pulled. It emitted a click. I pivoted back to the passenger door, leaped over to the handle. It opened and I scrambled out.

I put a call through to police. I was going to tell them that I’d possibly hit another car. I’m on hold for a few minutes. I walk to the back of the car and find a dent but it’s a tiny dent. No paint missing. I hang up the phone.

At midday, I’ve Ubered out to the Redcliffe Community Vaccination Clinic. I’m queuing up with some fifty others for my Pfizer shot. The staff are friendly and collegial.

A call comes through from Jacob,

“Hey, I was stuck in the car for about twenty minutes.”

“Ahh yeah, the car’s got some quirks. I’d forgotten about the door.”

“It also stalled a few times.”

“Yeah, a few people have used it recently and they told me they'd stalled. Yeah, you just have to give it heaps.”

“I did.”

“Yeah, no worries. And with the door, if you put your hand behind where the handle is you can push the handle and it’ll open.”

“Okay, great.”

About six people are ushered in to receive their jab. I stand, move up the queue, and sit back down.

“One more thing,” I said. “I’m worried that I might have hit another car when I reversed. I looked on the back and saw a small dent but I’m not sure.”

“The car’s got lots of dents.”

“Well, if you do get a call, please let them know that I was trapped in your death machine. Look, I’d better go. Thanks again for everything. I really appreciate it.”

“No worries.”

I’m given the white flag and I walked into see the nurse. She asked me the standard Covid questions and gave me the shot in the arm.

“You can book your next appointment just around the next corner.”

“No worries.”