The Inner Monologue

So, your car decided today was the day to stage a dramatic breakdown on the side of the road. Fantastic. You, being a responsible adult (or at least pretending to be), whip out your phone and call your beloved roadside assistance provider—AAA, CoachNet, your insurance company, whoever promised to be your knight in shining flatbed.

And then they hit you with the magic words: “Estimated wait time: four hours.”

Four. Hours.

That’s enough time to:

• Rewatch The Godfather (with intermissions for screaming into the void).
• Learn the basics of carburetor repair via YouTube (too bad your car doesn’t have one).
• Question every life decision that led you to this exact moment.

But hey, you wait. Because what’s the alternative? Paying out of pocket for a tow truck that isn’t contractually obligated to treat you like an afterthought? Please. You’re not made of money.

Finally, after what feels like a minor eternity, the wrecker arrives. Hallelujah! They load up your sad, broken chariot and tow you to the nearest repair shop, where the mechanic delivers the next gut punch: “We can maybe look at it in three days. Fix it? Oh, probably a week. Maybe.”

Here’s the cold, hard truth: You are not the priority.

That tow truck driver? They’ve got contracts with trucking companies, delivery fleets, and professional drivers—people whose vehicles make money. Those folks pay real money for real service. You? You pay $100 a year and expect the red carpet.

It’s not personal. It’s capitalism.

You’re in the economy class of vehicular distress. The pros are up in first, sipping complimentary coffee while their trucks get same-day service. Meanwhile, you’re in the back with a bag of stale peanuts, praying your Uber budget holds out.

So next time your car gives up the ghost, take a deep breath, embrace the wait, and remember: Roadside assistance isn’t there to save you. It’s there to eventually show up.

Happy breakdowns, friends. �💨