“You mean to tell me you don’t change your own oil?” My coworker was looking at me like I was a city slick of the worst kind. It was a chilly September day in Fayetteville, West Virginia, and my routine maintenance light had just come on.  

 A quick trip to Wal-Mart, and we arrived back at the guide campground with several quarts of oil and a new filter. Mark crawled under the truck with a bucket and popped the plug on the oil pan while I tinkered around under the hood pretending to know more about engines than I really did. The entire process took fifteen minutes, and I saved about ten dollars.

 I thanked Mark for his help, and drove back to the lower parking lot. I had some phone calls to make, so I rolled my window down and killed the engine. All seemed right in my world until Mark came down the hill with something to say. “I hate to tell ya this bud, but I think we mighta drained your transmission fluid instead of your oil.” After a brief moment of silence, he continued. “I got to lookin’ at the stuff in the bucket, and its awful red to be oil, but don’t worry about it! We’ll take’er over to the bus garage in the morning, and I’m sure we can figure it out.”

 My next call was to the insurance company to make sure I had towing coverage. They assured me that I did and gave me the number to a local mechanics shop. I called and set up an appointment for the next day. With the light fading in the West, I decided there was nothing left to do but go join the rest of my coworkers on the porch and have a few drinks.

 I woke up early the next morning-- not because I had to, but because sleeping in the back of your truck denotes rising when the sun does. After some coffee and breakfast, I settled in with a book and waited to hear from the towing company. My insurance company called me at 11:00 and told me the tow truck would be there no later than 12:30.

 Around 4:15 I got a call from a number out of Beckley, West Virginia. It was my tow truck driver. “Hey man! I’m sorry buddy. We been slammed today. Hell, it was supposed to be my day off. I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”

 For the first time all day I was given an accurate time frame. Half an hour later this good ‘ol boy came careening into the parking lot damn near on two wheels. After skidding to a stop, he hopped outta the truck in a flurry of curse words and Mountain Dew cans. He was about my height, shirtless, and covered in grease. He was wearing torn up blue jeans and boots that had seen better days. Lots of folks would find this scene unsettling, but so far I was completely un-phased. I’d grown up with guys like this.

 “Hey man, I’m gonna crawl up under the truck. When I say so go pull that lever.” I walked over and examined the controls. “Ok! Pull the lever on the left! NO! NOT THAT ONE! THE OTHER ONE!” He meant the lever on the right.

 He spent several more minutes tinkering with straps and then crawled into the driver’s side. “Fuckin’ A. This was supposed to be my motherfuckin’ day off, and these cocksuckers called me into work. They don’t pay worth a shit. Want a cigarette?” Being a blue-collar worker myself, I couldn’t blame him for being angry. He put the truck in drive and took a left turn on Milroy Grose Road.

 Between the cigarette smoke, and his profane stream of consciousness, I never had the opportunity to tell him he was going the wrong way. It wasn’t until we were a quarter mile down the road that he realized the mistake. Without a word he stepped on the brake pedal and threw it into reverse. We had to navigate several sharp turns, and he didn’t slow down for any of them. I was wholly convinced we were going to slam into some poor person on their way home from the Dollar General. I was no longer comfortable with this guy’s demeanor, and for the first time I noticed how much he waved his hands around.

 We made it back to the highway without hitting anything, which, as far as I was concerned, was an act of God. He proceeded to make another wrong turn. This time I spoke up. “We need to go right,” I yelled. Halfway into the turn he cut the wheel hard and dipped the truck into the median of Highway 19. We wobbled back onto the pavement and were finally headed in the right direction.

 “Fuck it, I need to make a quick stop,” he said while passing the gas station. He swerved left cutting someone off in the process and gave them the finger out the window after the ensuing honk. Several minutes later he came back with an energy drink and a tall can of Mountain Dew. He started the engine, and for the first time since I’d gotten in the truck, he made a turn in the right direction.  

 As we started up a hill, I noticed that he was swerving ever so slightly back and forth in the lane. He noticed me notice and said, “I bet you’re wondering why I’m swerving like this.” I was dealing with a man who had a keen sense of observation. “One time I was behind a semi truck, and they was swerving up a hill like that and I says to myself—because I’m smart—I says to myself ‘that fella is swervin’ like that to keep good traction on the uphill,’ and so I swerve on the uphills.” He went on to tell me about the time he spent in prison, and all the valuable information he picked up on the inside.

 Half a mile later he noticed another tow truck parked at a volunteer fire station that happened to be down the road from the shop we were going to. He turned into the parking lot, rolled down the window, and asked the driver where he should drop the truck. Unable to find it in myself to be shocked, I watched on as the other driver gave him a confused look and said, “I don’t know man. I’m just waiting on another call.” Realizing that the fire station wasn’t our destination, he turned back onto the road without another word.

 After a brief and merciful silence, he launched into another tirade about his employer and said something that will go down as one of the most uncomfortable things ever said in my presence. Getting louder as he went on he exclaimed, “they wanna make me their ninety hour a week for two hundred dollar BITCH. I could suck your cock right now and make more money than that!”

 Get me the fuck outta here.

 We finally turned into the shop’s parking lot where he got out and started to unload my truck in the middle of the one lane entrance. My friend Christian was supposed to meet me there and give me a ride home, but so far there was no sign of him. “We can’t drop it right here,” I said. “We’ll block the entrance.” He got back in the truck and continued, “we’re allowed to accept tips, by the way. That’s how we make most of our money, kinda like you river guides.” He started filling out some paperwork.

Christian finally showed up.

 “Alright bud, if you could just sign right here I’d ‘preciate it, and I’d say your best bet is to leave the key on the tire. Ain’t no one gonna know you left it there ‘cept you and me.” “I appreciate your help,” I said as I started towards Christian’s car. “Well ain’tcha gonna leave your key,” he asked. I didn’t bother to reply as I opened the door and got in.

We drove down the road and pulled into a thrift store parking lot. We watched as the guy circled my truck a few times and looked in the windows. After several minutes, he left.

 We went back to guide camp, and I drank whiskey out of the bottle.