The Angels of Triple A
I travel a lot. So much so that I feel guilty asking my boyfriend to pick me up at the airport, especially when I come back into town on a work night.
It’s midnight on a Sunday (technically a Monday, to be precise) and I’m feeling proud that I’ve parked at an airport lot near LAX, because I’ll be able to get home without bothering anyone. I feel good– independent, self-sufficient, despite being bleary-eyed, since I’ve traveled from New York and it’s 3am as far as my body is concerned.
The long-term parking garages have shuttles that come through the airport and pick up passengers regularly, about every 10 minutes or so. The garage I’ve chosen, however, must not own as many shuttles as the others, because when I get outside I see vans for about five other garages go by twice in 20 minutes. The one I want hasn’t appeared once.
I have the parking receipt I’ve printed from the internet. The phone number is on it. The woman who answers sounds very nice and tells me she’ll call the driver. Uh—I guess at that hour there’s only one? The other garages seemed to have a few vans running, but whatever. I just wait. And wait. It’s not that bad. There are other people waiting too, though for different vans; a few young women, an elderly man, and a young family with two little irritable kids.
Finally my driver pulls up and he’s great. Jolly, playing some decent R & B, (Kindred) and his van smells yummy. A little too much air freshener, perhaps, but the scent, a mix of vanilla and lavender, is pleasant.
I’m the first and only one on the bus. We’re about one minute from the garage. It’s 12:30am by this time. I have until 1am to get my car out without being charged an additional day. No worries.
Guess I’m really tired, not thinking straight. Silly of me, of course, to think he’s going to take me, JUST me, back to my car. There’s a busload full of people to pick up. And pick them up he does.
It takes another fifteen minutes of stopping at each terminal to fill the bus completely. I’m squeezed between a sleepy, blue-eye boy holding a hockey stick, and a wild-haired, mad scientist looking dude whose collared shirt is too short, and fails to cover his hirsute lower back when he leans forward.
I have a two-dollar tip ready for the driver. He’s been kind enough to help me with my heavy, Tumi carry-on, so he’s earned it. But when we get to the garage at 12:55am, I’m so preoccupied, worrying about getting out of there in time, that I forget to give it to him. Sorry! (I really do regret that.)
As it turns out, I must checkout in advance to receive an exit pass. BUT, even though I have the receipt that shows I’ve paid online, I have to show the ticket, too, which is in the car! Yikes.
I run all the way up to the car, on level 6, because I’m really stressed about going over my 1am deadline.
When I get to my Prius, out of breath from running the stairs, the remote door opener doesn’t work. Strange. I click and click, but nothing. I assume the battery on the remote has gone bad. There’s a tiny key imbedded in the device that you can release to open the door manually. I do.
Then I realize that nothing on the car is working. At all. I can’t pop the trunk to put my luggage in. And I can’t start the car. Crap! It’s not the remote; my battery is dead. UGH.
I run back down to the cashier with my ticket and receipt and tell her my problem. At this point, I’m more worried about having to pay for an additional day than I am about the dead battery.
She’s so nice. I think she feels sorry for me. She tells me not to worry about getting the car out late, gives me an exit pass, and says that there’s a guy on the premises who can jump my battery.
He’s a short, slight man, balding, but young– younger than I am. He picks me up in what looks like a golf cart, and zooms me up toward the 6th level.
I’m reminded of a similar ride I once took in garage at the Century City Mall, where I forgot where I’d parked and had to have security drive me around for 40 minutes looking for my car. I might as well have been wearing a neon dunce cap. Only idiots have to have security help them find their cars! It’s so humiliating being a passenger on the dumb-ass mobile when other people, normal people with a brain, are walking straight to their vehicles un-assisted.
On this ride, though, it’s just me and the cart driver. No one else around, returning to their cars at this ungodly hour. Most people don’t self-park when their flights get in in the middle of the night, cause it’s not safe, right? Hm. There are no seat belts in the cart and I have to hang on tight if I don’t want to fall out as he takes the turns necessary (several of them) to get to level 6. We arrive at my car in less than a minute.
He asks me to pop the hood and he takes a look. He’s baffled.
“I don’t see your battery,” he says, scratching his baldhead. “Must be in the trunk.”
Unfortunately, I can’t open the trunk. I’ve had the car for two years, but the battery has never died and I’ve never had to open the trunk without the remote. I don’t have the manual, because I bought the car used and it came without a hard copy. I only have a PDF version, which is on my computer at home. If there’s a way to open the trunk without the remote, I don’t know what that is—can’t find a slot for the key. I’m stuck.
The guy shrugs. Nothing he can do. I tell him I have Triple A. He says he’s sorry he couldn’t help, and asks if I’ll be okay while I wait for them. “I’ll be fine,” I tell him, even though I am kind of scared to be alone in a parking structure in a dead car in the middle of the night. He gives me an apologetic nod, hops back on his little cart and zooms off, down the ramp.
Whew. It’s nearly 1:30am now, 4:30 am for me, cause I’m still on New York time. But, at least I can sit in the car. And my cell phone works. I call Triple A. A perky sounding young woman tells me someone will be there in 30 minutes or less. Not bad. Still, I feel a bit sorry for myself.
I start to text my boyfriend, but then reconsider. He has to get up at 6am and he sleeps with his phone close by. If I text him, it’ll chime and wake him up. That would be selfish, I think.
I wrestle with the urge to call my mom. She’s told me to call her to let her know I landed safely, though, so I know she won’t mind if I wake her up. My hesitance is due to the fact that though I want to handle this situation like an adult, I want my mommy. I try, I really try to be a grown up. I fail.
She answers, and typical of my mom, she begins to talk, non-stop, without pausing to wait for any response from me: “Oh, good, you got in okay. Great. Well, glad you’re home safe, talk to you during the week. Sleep well. Love you, dear. Goodnight now. Bye.”
“Mom, wait!”
“Huh?”
“I’m not home. My battery died. I’m in the parking garage.”
“BY YOURSELF?! What time is it there?! OhmyGod!!”
I feel a bit better. Somebody cares about my little ordeal. “It’s okay, mom,” I say, trying to sound mature. “Triple A is coming.”
“Lock your door!”
Love my mommy. “It’s locked.”
“Poor thing, you must be exhausted.”
How much do I relish this sympathy? Mature? Ha! I’m a middle-aged infant.
“I’m fine, mom. Go back to sleep. Just wanted to let you know the plane landed safely.” I am SUCH a liar. I wanted comfort. I wanted to talk with someone who’d miss me if I don’t make it out of this garage alive.
Just then, I see that another call is coming in.
“Bye, mom.”
I click over. The voice on the other end sounds wide awake and upbeat.
“Hello Miss? I understand your battery died.”
“Um, yeah. At least I THINK that’s the problem.”
“Were almost there. Five minutes or less.”
“Wow, great. Okay.”
It’s now only about three minutes since I called Triple A and they told me 30 minutes. I’m pleasantly surprised.
A minute later two, immaculate, white trucks zoom up the ramp, one pulls in right beside me, and the other in back of me. Two 20-something, dashing Latinos emerge from the trucks at the exact same time. Like they choreographed it. Like performance art. I’m dazzled.
One goes directly under the hood of my car as I hand the other my license and Triple A card. He has longish, brown hair, friendly eyes, and a little stubble on his cheeks. The guy behind the hood, who’s slightly stocky and has short, spiky hair, does something which I don’t quite see. I think he’s used some kind of zapper, but who can be sure?
He says, “Should start right up now.”
It’s been like 20 seconds since they arrived.
“Seriously? That’s it?” I ask.
“That should do it,” the spiky haired guy says.
I put the key in, press the start button, and everything comes on. Like magic. Amazing. They’ve been there fewer than 30 seconds. (The battery is NOT in my trunk, by the way.) They close my hood, these BATTERY ANGELS, and I applaud. I’m an adoring fan.
One peeks into the window at the display on my dash. “You’re about one third charged… Drive it for at least twenty minutes and you’ll be go to go.
The other waves, smiles, and says, “Have a nice night.” His eyes twinkle. He’s not like other humans.
They each get into their respective shiny trucks, start them up, and off they go. Like Santa on his sleigh or something.
I’m really not sure if what I’ve seen is real. It occurs to me that I might still be asleep on my Jetblue flight, dreaming.
I exit the lot, and drive east on Century, toward home and the hood, while pinching myself a few times. I don’t wake up, so I guess it was real.
Thank you Battery Angels and Triple A. You made a grown woman (well, sort of grown) believe in magic. Good service really does exist!
































