“Shit.”  I don’t swear a lot, but those were the first words out of my mouth as the accelerator pedal suddenly went limp beneath my foot.  The radio cut off abruptly and all of the lights but one on the dashboard flickered out, leaving only a large, angrily blinking red battery icon.

Mai, my very short coworker sitting in the passenger’s seat, glanced over at me.  “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” I replied.  “The truck just died.”  The honking was already starting behind us.

I stared out the windshield at the gloomy day.  It was about 8:30 in the morning, and we were driving one of the Habitat for Humanity trucks out to the day’s job site.  We had gotten a foot and a half of snow over the last two days, so the roads were filled with ice and slush, and driving conditions were horrible.  Fortunately, our truck had four-wheel drive, and we had made it without incident into the middle lane of the three-line highway headed towards our destination.  Of course, that was where everything had gone wrong.

I turned the key again, but heard nothing from the truck.  There wasn’t even the click of the engine trying to turn over; it was completely dead.  “We’re not going anywhere,” I said heavily.

I glanced over at Mai, and saw the situation now sinking in.  It wasn’t great, I had to admit.  We couldn’t even pull over to the side of the road, get out of the center of the highway.  The only small upside was that, due to the snow, cars were creeping along at 20 miles per hour, giving them plenty of time to get out of our lane and go around us.  I made sure the emergency flashers were on.

Mai pulled out her phone.  “I’ll call Tony,” she said, punching in the number for our equipment and vehicle manager.  As she did so, I took out my own phone and scrolled down through my contacts to Habitat for Humanity’s tow service.  We were going to need it.

As I finished explaining to the lady at the towing center where we were located and what had happened, Mai  ended her call.  “Tony says we should call 911, let them know what happened,” she said, looking plaintively at me.  I could tell she didn’t want to be the one to call.

“On it,” I replied, punching in the three digits on my phone’s touchscreen.  As I hit the call button, I realized that this was the first time I had ever had reason to call 911.  What a milestone, I thought sourly to myself.

The phone picked up within a few rings, and a police dispatcher listened as I explained our situation, and then told me that a car would be out there shortly.  I wasn’t quite sure what a police car would be able to do to help us, but maybe the officer would have some ideas.  I slumped down in my seat, staring out at the sea of cars honking as they slowly passed us.

About ten minutes later, the police officer pulled up in a squad car behind us.  Turning on his lights and pulling up on our left side, he rolled down the window and yelled at me to try the car again.  Obligingly, I gave the key another turn.  Surprisingly, the car kicked into shaky, unsure life!  With the officer behind us, we merged over to the right shoulder of the highway.

We slowly crept along the shoulder until we reached the closest exit, the officer following behind us and directing other cars out of the way with his microphone.  Taking side streets, I limped the car back over to the repair shop, where I told them that the tow was no longer necessary.  Car dropped off, Mai and I walked the three blocks back to our office.

While that morning was definitely not fun, and it is quite traumatic to be sitting in a stalled car in the middle of the highway with vehicles passing on both sides, I am at least glad that my first 911 call was not for a death, injury, or other serious event.

It is nearly midnight as I write this, and instead of sleeping, as I should be, I am lying awake listening to my stomach.

I don’t know what I ate recently that is causing me such distress.  The disturbing rumblings that are rising up from my midsection may be due to the near pound of prime choice beef that I consumed last night (happy birthday to me, I’m twenty-three, oh god what am I doing with my life), or perhaps they are instead being caused by the copious amounts of syrup I consumed this morning.  I really don’t know.

In any case, these sounds are becoming disturbingly loud.  Normally, given that I have my own room to which I am able to retreat, I would not be overly bothered by such emanations.  However, these are loud enough to cause my bed frame to slightly shudder.  While some of the vibrations are definitely arising from within my intestines, other sounds seem to be materializing out of thin air around me.  Several times, I have been startled by such noises, booming hollowly in my ear.

Currently, I am adopting the fairly safe strategy of remaining absolutely still, curled up and waiting for the bad things to go away.  However, a small but suicidal part of my brain is telling me, even now, that the best course of action would be to jump up and down, roll around a bit, work out all of the remaining pockets in a single stroke.  This is similar to the voice that tells me to shake a can of soda, ensuring that all the gas will be released at once and not trouble me any further.  While this may be technically sound advice from a purely logical view, I anticipate that the consolidated release will put me in serious, potentially mortal, danger.

I am currently experiencing a lull in seismic activity, but I fear that this is similar to the eye in the hurricane, the briefest moment of serenity before the next tidal wave crashes down.  I am in a trough of inactivity, nervously awaiting the next crash of chaotic release.  I know not when the next attack shall come, only that I must suffer through, and that it shall be gloriously horrible and destructive.

I wonder how gentlemen during Victorian times expressed sentiments relating to flatulence.  Obviously, these were not the topic of choice during afternoon tea, over cucumber sandwiches and small china saucers of the finest Indian import, but I am certain that several members of the upper crust must have documented such occurrences in journals and such, private writings that would not be shared with their fellow nobs.  I am certain that, although my vocabulary is extensive, I am still lacking many fortuitous words that would do an excellent job of depicting my current situation.  The loss of these journals is a grievous wound upon the literary world, I am sure.

Oh, here we go again.  It seems I shall get little sleep tonight.