So, here we are, two MVs cruising the outskirts of Myrtle Beach, looking for some tire help... and we stumble upon the only Wal-Mart in the history of mankind that doesn't have an auto center.
Now, I'm in my own MV, so I didn't hear this part, but I'll relate what I was told by the passenger (a.k.a Kelley).
Bess pulls up to the front of the Wal-Mart, as we had to turn around in the back of the store because we kept driving around the back of the building to find the auto center that, of course, we realize doesn't exist.
There's a gentleman standing on the sidewalk, near the end of the building where she pulls up, and I can tell that she's probably going to ask directions when she eases the MV up next to him.
Before I relay the conversation, let me just say that Bess is hilarious. She has a very sharp, dry sense of humor, and most of the time, she doesn't mean to be funny... but she is.
Apparently, the conversation went something like this:
Bess: (on the verge of some sort of breakdown) Excuse me, sir, but can you tell me if there's another Wal-Mart with an auto center or any other kind of repair shop near here?
Random Man: aslkdfjdiogapffisdfoisjg;iahf;oweja no English. (That translates into: "I don't speak English.)
Momentary Pause
Bess: "Of course you don't."
And the MV pulls away.
I, of course, am a little perplexed as to why we're still cruising the Wal-Mart parking lot until I see Bess pull up to another person. I assume that the first man just didn't know of another store or maybe wasn't familiar with the area... but of course, that would've been too easy. Bess finds the one person in the non-tourist section of the Redneck Riviera that isn't visiting from one of the 48 continental United States.
The next guy, I am happy to report, knows his auto stores and directs us to the next Wal-Mart which does, in fact, have an auto center. We successfully locate the new store, as it is almost -- like two hairs -- from being dark and we have no idea where we are.
Of course, the impending darkness means that the auto store is also -- what else? -- closed. Now, the man closing up the repair bay apparently recognizes that Bess is a potential candidate for a fit of postal-type rage, and he generously volunteers to stay late and fix her tire.
Thrilled and ready to get out of the car, we park and take off into Wal-Mart.
TRAVEL TIP:
Wal-Mart is not the place to take six children-- or three adults -- who have been cooped up in cars all day long.
We are acting like we have never been inside a Wal-Mart before. It might as well be Neiman Marcus or Saks.
We have about an hour to kill, and it seems the hour will never pass. (Obviously, we came to our senses shortly after entering the store, as Wal-Mart is -- on most days -- very similar to my idea of what Hell must be like.)
Finally, with a cart full of stuff we probably don't need, we hear the intercom man say, "Mrs. Wurst, your van is ready."
The angels break out singing the Hallelujah chorus.
We speed back to the auto center to check out.
Now, at this point, Ethan has Riverdanced all over my very last nerve, and I am trying really hard not to be surly... until the very bitter old geezer working the auto center register sees me pull a bunch of bananas from the cart.
"I can't check you out here," he growls.
"Excuse me?" I ask politely, thinking maybe the register isn't open.
"I SAID, I can't check you out here. If you have stuff that has to be weighed, I can't check you out."
WHAT RACED THROUGH MY AND WAS HOPEFULLY CONVEYED BY THE SKIN-SEARING GLARE ON MY FACE:
Excuse me, sir.
Do you see this look on my face? Do you not recognize the look of someone under extreme duress? You must not, or else you would not be talking to me like my dog just peed on your leg. I know you want to go home, and I know you're having to stay late because some mom and her silly friends came in with a flat tire two minutes after closing, but I need YOU to know that WE have been in a car for, at this point, 10 hours with all kinds of misfortunes befalling us every 200 yards and six kids that, bless them, just want to see the beach, and a trip that should have taken four hours is still not over, six hours after it should have been. You may be in a bad mood, but I PROMISE -- your mood is nothing compared to mine.
Do not talk to me like I am a three year old, or I will resort to a real ugly tantrum.
WHAT I REALLY SAID:
Nothing.
Having been raised by Ms. Manners herself, I bite my tongue but turn on sharply on my heel with the buggy and Laney in tow, hoping my body language is the equivalent to the bird (hand gesture, not feathered friend) I really want to fly in his direction.
I go up front, stand in line for about ten minutes, check out, return to the back... and the man still has not finished ringing Bess up.
Ethan, who stayed behind with Kelley and the others while I went to check out, chooses this moment to pitch a small tantrum because he can't watch a movie on the tv in the waiting area.
The man who fixed the tire comes to the rescue again. I must've looked like I was about to blow Ethan to bits with my telepathic mental powers because the tire man says, "Hey! Come look at this!" and proceeds to entertain the kids for the next 10 minutes pretending to be magic.
They are enthralled by him. I have never seen anything like it in my life. The man has missed his calling. Here he is, working in an auto shop, when he should be entertaining kids at parties and whatnot. Even I, in the midst of my plotting evil revenge against the Grump Monster at the register, have to laugh... which felt good, considering my other options are to cry or rip the Mean Man's limbs off one by one.
FINALLY, Master Grumpy the First finishes ringing the girls up, and the tire man helps us to our cars.
It is time for dinner, and then we're on to the condo! I can hardly believe the time is at hand.
We swing by Chick-Fil-A for a quick bite and a little playtime on the playground. The kids are ecstatic about getting to play, and we girls are ecstatic because the ordeal is almost finished.
Or so we think.
Just as we are wrapping things up, taking kids to the bathroom, throwing away trash, etc.... a man comes in from the parking lot.
"Is anyone here driving a Nissan Quest?"
"We are." I'm the only adult not in the bathroom, so I take charge.
"Did you know you have a flat tire?"
I can't even respond. There are no words to describe the depth of despair that I am feeling right this moment.
Bess appears and says, "What's wrong?"
The man repeats what he has discovered. Bess, incredulous and 99% sure that this has to be a very un-funny joke, follows him outside.
I, still dumbstruck, am just standing in the middle of the restaurant, gawking, when finally, I come to my senses.
Unfortunately for him, it is at this moment that one of the nice Chick-Fil-A employees (because aren't they always incredibly pleasant?) begins mopping nearby. Unaware of the incredibly brutal trip we have experienced thus far, he asks innocently, "What's wrong?"
Now, I don't know why I sometimes lose control of myself, but I think at this point, I had just reached the ultimate limits of my patience.
"The tire is flat! I cannot even believe this! We just left Wal-Mart not thirty minutes ago with a brand new tire! How can this happen?!?!? Really! This has to be a joke! But it's not funny! It's NOT funny!!!"
Bless him. The Nice Employee had no idea, when he chose to be nice and show concern to a fellow human moments before, that he would, in fact, be addressing a Crazy Lady who has been riding shotgun through Hell for the past almost eleven hours.
A look of serious concern crosses his face, and he begins to slowly back away.
Probably a good idea.
Kelley returns, and she and I join Bess outside while our kids are running amok inside the restaurant... and we don't even care. They want to run around like wild banshees, screeching and screaming? Go ahead. Be my guest. Does it bother us that we are in a public place and our kids are acting like someone just set them free in Disneyland? Not in the least.
At this moment, we are staring -- mouths agape in painfully silent disbelief -- at the completely flat tire on the Quest.
It is 9:00. Chick-Fil-A is closing. We have nowhere to go and no way to get anywhere, even if we did have somewhere to go. The kids are all but climbing the walls. We are bone-tired, on the brink of hysterics, and completely out of cell phone service.
That's right, ladies and gentlemen. We don't even have a way to contact anyone. We are four hours from home, thirty minutes from our condo, and stuck like we walked into a puddle of superglue.
This is unbelievable.
Fortunately, we are at a Chick-Fil-A, which happens to employ only The Nicest People Ever... so they let us use their phone to make our calls, even though they are all long distance, and they don't even complain that it is past their closing time and we are still not only at the restaurant site but also actually occupying space inside the restaurant.
The Grumpy Man at Wal-Mart will never be able to get a job at Chick-Fil-A. That is for sure.
Anyway... first, we call Wal-Mart. Bess talks to the manager, who must be related to the Grumpy Man because he is surly and not the least bit helpful.
We make a few other calls, and then finally, we call Megan, who thinks we're kidding about the flat tire.
"Seriously -- where are y'all?"
"At Chick-Fil-A. The tire is flat -- swear."
"You must be joking. There is no way this much stuff can happen in one day."
That's what I thought. We couldn't possibly have any more bad luck.
After a few more phone calls, the man who discovered the flat tire returns with his air compressor, bless him, and pumps the tire up.
Megan shows up with The Party Van (I'll explain that later), and we decide to drive all three vans to the condo and just figure out something in the morning.
Finally, after a quick stop for gas and a quick detour to the Home Depot parking lot to check the tire, we get to the condo.
It is 11:30... thirteen-and-a-half hours after we pulled out of A-town.
We're pretty sure we've just set some kind of record... and it's just the first day of the trip....
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Luckily for you, the rest of the trip was incredibly but thankfully glitch-free. Can you imagine how long the blog for Day 2 would be?!?!
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PS --
About the Party Van... Megan (known as Mimi to the kids) told us before we left that she'd borrowed a van from a friend of her grandmother's. We were thinking "mini-van," but when Megan said van, she meant VAN.
She shows up to rescue us at C-F-A, driving a Club Wagon...you know... a fifteen passenger van.
Had I not thought my head was about to spontaneously combust, I probably would have wet my pants laughing. Megan never does anything the conventional way.
Now, the kids thought it was phenomenal. They fought over who got to ride in the Party Van. You would've thought they were fighting over front row seats to Disney on Ice or something. Ethan, who has decided that Megan's Party Van is second only to Papa's truck -- which is his favorite all-time vehicle--, still talks about the fun times he had at the beach in Mimi's ride...
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