Escape from Nashville

The moral of this story is that I am a goober. I’m stating the moral upfront so those with attention spans too short for a 1,000 word blog can still get the full effect. “I’m not going to finish reading this, but I know it confirmed some long-held suspicions that Nathan Lee is, in fact, a raging goober” you just read in your mind’s voice before closing this window.

And now for the long version. I saddled up Blues Traveler, my trusty steed of a car, and galloped across I-75 to the country music capital of the world – Nashville, ‘Murica. Normally I would spend this time resting in the cupboards of Taylor Swift’s mansion, but as I previously wrote, I broke up with her and she has since sought solace in relationships with men who look exactly like me.

We even have the same butterfly tattoo on our stomachs! Creepy…

No, this time I was in town for a YSA conference, where twenty-something Mormons go to socialize, attend religious classes, and pretend we're not twenty-something. The conference was fine, and I did the typical things – danced the Cha-Cha Slide with such intensity that the aurora borealis shone brighter that night, Cupid Shuffle’d with enough grace that somewhere a terrorist reconsidered his stance on America, and tried out some new Mormon pickup lines.

Yo girl. My name’s Thummim. I’ve been looking for my eternal companion and I think your-him.

Get it? Urim?...Uh, let me try again.
Yo, girl. Is your name King Lamoni? Because I’d cut that guy’s arms off for you. 

Wait, that came out wrong…Baby come back, I’ve got more!

That is, everything was fine until Saturday evening. The activities were shifting to a different church 10 miles down the road. I made it about 2 miles before Blues Traveler started billowing the blackest, thickest smoke I’d ever seen emitted from an exhaust pipe. It was like a dark genie being released from its lamp to grant me three wishes, as long as those wishes were all “I’d like to pay several hundred dollars in auto repairs.” My car slowed to a crawl, and I pulled over into the nearest yard, which happened to be a sprawling, palatial estate. I called my friend Janna, and she picked me up and took me back to the conference while my car was towed to a mechanic. 

It was Easter weekend, so I knew my car would not be fixed until at least Monday. I resigned to make the most of my extended stay, because what could I do? Sometimes crappy things happen, and it’s nobody’s fault. I texted my boss that I was stranded in Nashville, and one of the conference organizers was nice enough to let me crash on his couch Sunday night. Janna gave me a ride to the airport so that I could get a rental car.  Everything was set for a day of fun in Nashville while my car was being serviced.

The first thing I wanted to do Monday morning was visit Nashville’s replica of the Parthenon and Athena statue, because the South can have nice things too! Unfortunately these Greek knockoffs are closed on Mondays, and the park it is located in was all but abandoned. It is clear that the City of Nashville doesn’t understand why tourists come to their city. Hint: it ain’t for classic culture. If any government officials stumble upon this blog, let me help you out.

Behold, the Garthenon!

Afterwards I drove downtown so that I could wander the city. When pulling in to a parking deck I sideswiped a cement pillar. I started panicking, thinking of all the money it would cost to make amends to the rental company, not to mention what I would surely owe the mechanic for my own car. I purchased a bottle of water and used my brand new shirt as a rag, because I accidentally tore a gaping hole in it the night before anyway. I scrubbed the scrapes and dent vigorously, and made about as much difference as a rational person would assume.

“Hand me a bottle of water and a button-up shirt. I can fix this.”

My vacation was quickly unraveling. I drowned my sorrows in Nashville barbecue, took a nap in a Goodwill parking lot, and then called the mechanic. They had not even looked at my car yet, so I was stuck for another night. I Pricelined the cheapest motel I could find, ignoring all of the Yelp reviews, and checked into the Please Don’t Stab Me Inn (“Free Continental Bandages!”). After dropping my bags off I drove to the nearest fast food joint, a ghetto Jack in the Box. I was the only one in the restaurant until a man and woman walked in. They were middle-aged, disheveled, strung out, and hungry. They politely asked for some food, and I purchased a couple of burgers. The man was grateful and hugged me for an uncomfortable amount of time. Twice. I retired to my motel room and slept, hoping that the next day would be better. “Roll with the punches," I told myself.

The mechanic called me in the early afternoon. He had found the problem. It turns out that some goober had poured an entire gallon too much oil into my engine, flooding and ruining several parts. If you have good reading retention and remember the moral of this story, you have guessed by now that I am that goober.  Every time the engine light had come on the past couple of weeks I had poured a quart of oil into my car, because Blues Traveler has a slight oil leak, and that is usually what the engine light means. I never touched the dipstick, despite my father telling me that I should. I just blindly tipped up the oil can and hit the road. All of my ‘tough luck’ – the expensive car repairs, missing work, denting my rental car, etcetera – was my fault. It was a sobering realization - there was no invisible, malicious hand plaguing me. There never had been. The punches I roll with in life are thrown by me.

“This oil needs more oil.”

But if there is room in this blog post for two morals, it’s that my problems are small in the scheme of things, and I can strive to correct and prevent them. I’ve blindly tipped up the oil can and hit the road many times, but I am blessed with a support system that makes it difficult to fall too far. I thought about the couple back at Jack in the Box, and then I thought of my friends who are more than willing to help bail me out. I thought about my parents who worry about me and are there in a second if I need them. And then I thought, “Stop making life needlessly hard for yourself. Stop being a goober.”

I dropped my rental car off at the airport and hopped in a cab to take me to the mechanic. In keeping with the theme, the cab broke down several times on the way there. This was not because of my negligence or poor decision making, so I laughed it off and assumed this was the cab driver’s lesson to learn. On Tuesday night, 54 hours after I was meant to leave Nashville, I finally picked up my car and started the long drive back home. The engine light has yet to come back on, but when it does I will be better prepared.

And now, I wait...