“No. That would be such a waste. Plus, I can’t leave you here alone to deal with this.”
“It could take forever. You could miss your show.”
“I’m not gonna miss the show,” she says with confidence, which I don’t think is, like, really backed up by the facts of the situation here. “We’ll find someone to help us. I’m sure it’s a quick fix. Bessie here is a tough broad.” She pats the dash. “Now do you have Triple A?”
Something on my face must give away the answer to that because she quickly continues. “Okay, no Triple A. Well, we can just call a nearby mechanic? Maybe they can send a tow.”
A few minutes later, though, we’ve called all the car shops in the vicinity and have gotten either busy signals or no answer. And, I mean, I get that it’s a Sunday on a holiday weekend or whatever, but damn. The universe is not on our side.
“Okay, new plan,” Delilah says, holding up her phone so I cansee a map. “This shop isn’t far, just right in town. We can walk there and see if anyone can help us.”
So we set off on the side of the road, leaving Bessie behind to fend for herself with the terrifying raptor birds. The two-lane road is lined with tall trees, but the late-summer sun is still burning down. It’s so hot I can literally feel the exact moment my anti-perspirant says, “You’re on your own, bro,” and peaces out on me. And even though I’m keeping up a perfectly normal conversation with Delilah, all I’m thinking about is my dripping pits and whether I can get away with a smell check. And how even if I’m slick enough so Delilah doesn’t see me, some dude with a phone in one of these cars speeding past us will, and then I’ll be captured on camera and made into a meme that will follow me around for the rest of my life.
“Oh, I remember this place!” Delilah shouts, oblivious to my BO-sniffing dilemma. We’re standing in front of a blue-and-white sign that reads “Welcome to Solvang” in old-timey lettering. “Just wait. We’re almost there!”
Almost there means another half mile and approximately five-billion quarts of stinky sweat. But at least I can see what got her so excited. We’ve basically stepped into a dream world—or at least the set of one of those creepy, claymation movies that are always on perpetual rerun at Christmastime. There’s a sea of white buildings with sloped roofs and dark wooden beams, cobblestone streets, and at least three windmills that I can count peeking up into the bright blue sky.
“Whoa,” I say to Delilah as a man struts past us in lederhosen like it’s no big deal.
“Right?” Delilah sighs back, her eyes bright with excitement.
This place looks like where Santa goes on vacation.
But Karl, the owner of the auto shop, doesn’t look anything like Santa, with his stringy gray hair and frame so thin it’s possible he’d snap right in half if he was hit with a strong gust of wind. And he’s not jolly at all when, after his tow truck driver hauls in Bessie, he tells me that I need a new alternator to make her go again, and that he can’t make that happen until tomorrow, maybe. If he gets around to it.
“It’s a holiday weekend. You’re not the only one trying to make a long drive in a car that can’t take it.”
“She—I mean,my carhas always been just fine. I take it in for checkups twice a year.”
“Sorry,” he adds with a shrug that looks very not-sorry. “You can check back later if you want. But I wouldn’t count on it. Tomorrow morning is the best I can do.”
I leave my phone number and we walk outside of the shop. It’s aggressively cheery, the polar opposite of Karl’s vibe, with bright red paint, intricately carved white trim, and yellow flowers bursting out of an oversized wooden clog.
“So what now?” I ask.
“Ebelskivers,” Delilah answers, nodding her head with certainty, and I blink at her. Is she having a sudden, panic-induced loss of language?
“Ebelskivers,” she repeats again. “They’re these... pancake ball things, I guess? But way more delicious than that sounds. They’re soft and fluffy and filled with jam. I remember getting them when I would drive through with my mom. After the ostriches.” Shepoints to a windmill that has café tables set out front. “I bet they have ebelskivers.”
I blink at her some more, confused, so she laughs and adds, “I promise ebelskivers are a lot less scary than the ostriches.”
“You joke, but if those fences weren’t there, those suckers would take us down with no regrets.” I shake my head. “But no, I meant, like, your show? How are we going to get you to your show?”
I check the time on my phone. “We have two hours until you go on, and it’s about an hour away. So you can still make it, but it will be cutting it close, you know, with traffic. We could always call Ryan and see if they’re all still driving, or I bet she would come and pick you up. And I know you say a Lyft is too much, but I really don’t mind—”
“Reggie,” Delilah cuts me off. “I’m not going to the show.”
“What do you mean? We don’t have to give up yet.”
“I’m not going. I—I don’t think it’s worth it.”
I study her face: stormy eyes and a tight jaw.
“Is it ’cause you’re nervous? You don’t have to be nervous. I mean, I know this festival is a big deal or whatever, but you’re going to kill it. You always do.”
“I’m not nervous,” she says, looking me straight in the eye so I know it’s true.
“Then what’s going on, Delilah? You can talk to me.”