Ilsa, the Tigress of South Louisiana

When we last left our intrepid heroes, they were suspended mid-air in a burning hang-glider, flying over the edge of a cliff, below which ran the Amazon river, the lurking home of thousands of man-eating piranha and crocodiles.

Or actually, in a large U-Haul with no gas control. Once again, my mad driving skillz honed by years of travel and video games came to the rescue. I turned on my right clicker (which never had a problem) and eased into the right lane. By this time, we were going just under forty-five. By this time, I half-expected to see a state trooper give me a ticket for driving too slowly. Luckily, the brakes still functioned. I can't imagine trying to use the gorram electro-pneumatic parking brake to cease the motion of Ilsa. Cat started to freak out a little at this point, as I was locked into that silent stoic Zen state you find yourself in as all comedy centers in your mind shut down so the survival-focused lizard brain can take control of the eyes and body.

I managed to ease the rig onto the shoulder and find the hazard lights. I first tried to start the engine again, but I only got the accessories (lights, radio) but no engine sounds. Empty, the whole truck shook back and forth from the wind and air pressure each time a large SUV or real truck drove by. By this time, night had fallen. Cat and I climbed out the passenger side of the cab to meet her parents (who wanted to know what's what). I'm trying to juggle the keys, the cell phone to call U-Haul, Cat, her parents, and about seventy dozen mosquitoes who wanted a sip of my sweet Russian blood.

Even as a small child, I had mild allergies to mosquito bites, such that the bite would swell larger and itch more than the next person. For some reason, mosquitoes have always liked me. Standing by the side of the Interstate near a nameless service road and a runoff ditch, I had literally about a half dozen fat mosquitoes the size of capers attacking me, while the other three were relatively unmolested.

I got through to U-Haul's emergency number. Their on-hold music was interspersed with messages like "If you have jumper cables, and someone is willing to give you a jump, go ahead and try that." and "If you have another roadside assistance service like Triple A, feel free to give them a call." and "If the vehicle is drivable and it's after five PM, go ahead to your destination for the evening and we'll call you in the morning." What sort of problems could one have that you'd need to call the emergency number and the vehicle could still run? Surely, U-Haul would not encourage one to flee the scene of an accident!

Cat had the dubious privilege of talking to the U-Haul rep while I worked controls in the cockpit of the beast- evidently U-Haul outsources Latina script-readers for their mechanic dispatch. At least three times, we were asked where we were and if we were in a safe place. Imagine, if you will, Cat holding one ear and screaming into the phone over the rush of passing traffic, "No, it's not safe! We're on the side of the interstate!" Of course, now it's funny. But when you're told that you'll be called back in a half an hour and to wait where you are on the side of the highway about to fall into a dark ditch full of carnivorous mosquitoes, it's a little stressful.

Jim and Roxy did some reconnaissance and found a nearby exit with food services about a mile up the road. They picked us up and we left llsa, hazards a-blinking, on the side of the road. As we were all pretty hungry, we went to Burger King and ate- by the time we sat down, it was about a quarter past seven. After scarfing some food, we proactively called back U-Haul to discover the status of anything. I told the rep that we were off the road, that we had left the equipment by the side of the highway, and that we had made refuge in a Burger King. I heard a little lightbulb go on over her head, and she asked me for a street address of where we were. I told her we were in a Burger King off exit 80 in Crowley, LA (thanks, Mr. Receipt!) and awaiting assistance. She asked me for an address, and I tried to explain to her that this was a little wide spot in the road, there was only the one Burger King, it was visible for a mile in either direction down the highway, and that the mechanic should have no problems finding the location. How can you miss a thirty-foot hulking orange-throated gas guzzler that's blinking?

She asked me for a street address. "Can't you go inside and ask someone for an address?" These are Burger King employees, I explained. I reiterated that this Burger King was the only one off the exit and that it was easily found by travelers, much less a local mechanic.

She asked me for a street address. "Can't you go inside and ask someone for an address?" It was like talking to a damn parrot. I knew she had a little form to fill out, likely in an web pages displayed in Microsoft's Internet Explorer, and she had to put something in there before she could click submit. I asked her to hold.

I then learned that Burger King Employees do not know where they work. I asked one for a street address, and she looked at me blankly. She looked at crew member #2, who looked at me. I asked #2 for a street address of the Burger King and she said, "North Parkinson." I thanked her and asked for the street address. #2 asked #3, who asked #4, who asked #5. None knew where they worked, but they all agreed it was North Parkinson, all right. (Google later tells me it's North Parkerson Ave.) #5 got the idea to go into the back and ask someone. Eventually I get the correct street address out of the Burger Doodle employees ("Is it a street or avenue, sir?") and relay it to the U-Haul rep. She fiddles about and puts me on hold while she talks to the mechanic. She comes back in a few minutes and tells us it'll be an hour and a half.

...to be continued...

Was there a fourth Ilsa movie?