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Can I Get a Jump?

No.

We had a bit of a snowstorm here yesterday; consequently, the roads are shitty, the cars are shittier, and the temperature has drop like a sack of donkey testicles in a prison rape. I have no idea what that analogy means.

Like every other day on the planet, I got off the train and trudged my way up to my car, which sat all day on the top level of a parking garage and is now covered in salt that was tossed indiscriminately around the lot. Yay for that.

One of the fun things about the top level of the garage: there’s no light. Sure, there are lights, but most of them are either broken out or dead. It’s a very dark, desolate place, and I’d probably feel unsafe if not for the fact that I’m usually there in rush hour, when it’s sort of crawling with people.

Tonight, it was pretty dead. I saw one other guy on the top level, and he was already almost to the other end of the lot — in the same aisle as me — when I got up there. No big, right?

I went to my car, unlocked the door, and I saw a guy walking toward me. I figured it was just some guy who decided to park and spend a bleary, forgettable night Downtown™, because he’s very hip and cool.

“Excuse me, sir?” a timid, high-toned voice asked just after I opened my door. Maybe I’m a paranoid person, but I immediately whirled around and dropped my backpack, containing among other things a laptop, into the car and stood in a disturbing linebacker pose in front of the doorway. I almost did a Ralph Furley karate stance, but I managed to compose myself when I realized this guy was about four feet tall and about as threatening as a beached whale.

Still, I was defensive. Partly the paranoia, partly the thought that he had many, many weapons concealed on his person. Which I guess is also paranoia.

“What?!” I snapped.

“Can you help me jump my car, please?” He seemed pretty desperate.

“No,” I said, “I really gotta get home.” This was a lie. It’s cold, and I assumed my car would be all icy (fortunately, it wasn’t), so I figured I’d need at least ten minutes to warm up the car, if not more. Lucy called me while I was at work, so I thought I’d call her back and talk to her while I warmed up my car.

“Ohokaysorry,” the man said, and he seriously said it all as if it was one long word. I found that amusing.

He moved on, and I figured he really was just harmless. Still, I got in my car, started it, and left immediately. My engine weeped with pain, but it understood. I wasn’t really afraid at that point; I mainly just didn’t want him coming back after a few minutes and get roped into helping to jump his car. For one thing, despite the zillions of times I’ve aided in jumping cars, I never really paid attention, so if he didn’t know and I didn’t know, there would probably be some form of thermonuclear blast rocking the midwest by this time. For another, I just didn’t want to help him.

I felt sort of guilty, and I guess I still sort of do. Once, I left my lights on when I got to the lot, so I had to have it jumped when I got back. I called my mom, and she grudgingly came to help but insisted I go and ask other people in cars to help me. Nobody would, and I guess now I know why. It’s really fucking creepy and disturbing, no matter how completely unintimidating a person you are. Especially at night in the dark.

I thought later, on my way home, that I should’ve told him to go back into the station and beg people who were just getting off trains. There’s a strange psychological thing that happens to people at rush hour. When they first get off the train, there’s this excessive relief that the ride is finally over, but usually by the time they reach the escalator down to the parking lot, their relief turns to anticipation of just getting the fuck out of there and going home.

So, when you get up to the parking lot, even if you’re the most trusting, naïve, or helpful person on the planet, you still wouldn’t help the person jump his or her car because you just want to leave. I figured if he caught somebody in the station, they might at least agree to it and then get stuck before they get down to the parking lot. Plus, standing under the hostile fluorescents, he’d look far less intimidating than randomly approaching people from the shadows.

But, obviously, I didn’t think of any of that until later, so here’s my advice to the three people who enjoy this blog and live in a place with harsh winters and poorly maintained outdoor parking garages: stand somewhere brightly lit and public and beg for somebody to jump your car; don’t approach them from behind as they’re getting into their car. If my paranoia had been a little bit more severe, and I had had immediate access to a blunt object, that guy probably would have been unconscious for awhile.

Posted by Stan on January 5, 2004 9:04 PM  | Permalink | Stories of Pain and Humiliation | Digg It