This was many years ago, but it sticks in my mind to this day. I was a contracted service provider (tow truck driver) for a major roadside assistance/travel organization, though the company I worked for was quite small.

I had been sent to a lakeside neighborhood in my popular northwest city, a neighborhood full of hip restaurants and cutesy boutiques, to change a tire on a new BMW. (This was back when all cars had a spare tire, which should tell you how long ago this was.) I had my own tools, but for the new BMWs, it was always recommended to use the tools that came with the car since they were less likely to cause damage. I had no problem with that since the jack that came with the car was quite easy to use. It had a crank instead of a jack handle.

The only issue was that there needed to be enough clearance between the jack and any nearby immovable objects, such as, say, a curb. This particular vehicle was parked VERY close to the curb. My standard operating procedure is to ask the customer to slowly move the car away from the curb to avoid damage to the rim of the flat tire. No one has an issue with this. Normally.

The chucklehead owner of the vehicle refused to move it.

Owner: “It’ll ruin my tire!”

Me: “If you move it slowly, it won’t damage anything.”

He wasn’t buying it.

Me: “The tire is already flat and likely needs to be replaced anyway, so it’s no problem.”

Owner: *Screeching* “Get on with it and change the tire! I have places to be!”

I got to it, wanting to be clear of this chump as quickly as possible.

This car’s jack had a very low gear ratio, requiring several turns to lift the car even an inch. But the force required to turn the crank was not excessive, enabling the user to quickly turn the crank until the car was raised sufficiently. The issue with the car being too close to the curb is that while the jack’s crank had a hinge to fold it compactly when stored, the crank had to be unfolded completely to provide adequate leverage to turn and lift the car. But with it so close to the curb, the bottom of the arc of the crank’s movement caused the handle to just barely clear the curb. The only problem was that I was holding the crank as it came around to the curb, and there was not enough room between the crank handle and the curb for my fat fingers.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I did accidentally skin two knuckles down to the bone — with the scars still present to this day — and yes, I did use some colorful, unprofessional language. Captain Chucklehead heard this and smugly announced that he was going to report my horrifying language and get me fired. He then reiterated his desire for me to get the lead out and finish changing the tire.

Oh, really?

See, my first aid kit was back in the truck, several dozen yards away. Well, since I didn’t want to delay this person’s day any longer than absolutely necessary, I just continued to change the tire, splattering crimson jewels of blood on the rim of the flat, on the spare, on the jack, on the lug wrench, and on the fender. I made sure not to waste a single cell on the ground. I even managed to get a nice, fat, drippy drop on the window. His face went pale as he saw the biohazard scene unfolding all over his precious car. I even made him sign the form with a blood-smeared pen, though I gave him the opportunity to get his own.

After he nearly caused an accident leaving the parking space — probably on his way to the car wash — I was then able to tend to my poor, abused knuckles and get ready for whatever else the day would bring. I never heard a single squawk from my boss, or from corporate.

I probably should’ve just driven away. This incident happened early in my career as a roadside assistance service provider, and I learned very quickly not to allow myself (or allow others to put me) in situations where my safety or health was in jeopardy. My boss (and corporate) would completely have had my back in these kinds of situations.

I work for a breakdown and towing service that, among others, has a contract with a few luxury and high-end car brands. If one of their cars breaks down, we tow it and provide the customer with a replacement vehicle for the duration of the repairs. For this purpose, we have a number of luxury cars that we give out as replacements. They may not be the exact same car as the one that’s broken down, but they’re high-end luxury cars all the same.

One fine day, we’re delivering a replacement car to a customer whose car is in the garage for a lengthy repair. Our driver arrives, rings the doorbell, and explains that he’s delivering a vehicle. So far, so good, right?

The customer, upon finding a replacement car not quite exactly like the one that’s currently in for repairs, becomes enraged. He takes one of his other cars, blocks the gate to his estate so our driver can’t leave, and releases his dogs.

Our driver manages to barricade himself inside his truck and calls the police, who arrive in force to liberate him. The customer is arrested, our driver files a formal complaint against him, and we ban the customer for the rest of his life.

All this over a replacement car that was the wrong model of luxury car…

It was a cold morning in November when I was headed to work and blew out a tire. I safely navigated the car to the side of the interstate — for which I’m very thankful — and put my hazard lights on. With no spare tire in my trunk, I called roadside assistance and got an ETA, and then I called work to tell them I would be in as soon as possible.

As it was not quite 4:00 am, it was still dark. I was waiting for the tow truck when a man wearing raggedy clothes and covered in dirt knocked on my window. I have seen way too many movies to just trust someone who walks up to my car.

Me: “Yes?”

He motioned for me to put the window down.

Me: “Are you with [Wrong Towing Company]?”

Man: “Yeah. Open the door.”

Me: “Go away.”

I purposely named the wrong company to see if he would correct me. When he didn’t, I started filming. The man pounded on the window and tried to open the door, which I had already locked. My voice was still calm and firm but my heart was racing. 

Man: “You f****** b****! Open up!”

Me: “You need to leave.”

Man: “I’m with [Wrong Towing Company]! Now open the door!”

Me: “So, where’s your tow truck?”

Man: “Open the door!”

He kicked my car’s panel and pounded the window.

Me: “The police are on their way.”

This was a lie, but the man left. I watched him in my mirror as he crossed the divider to the other side of traffic and disappeared into the woods beyond.

When roadside assistance arrived, I told them about the encounter. The man driving the tow truck drove me to an auto shop to get a new tire and then to the police station to make a report before taking me back to my house.

The man outside my car was known in the area, apparently homeless and addicted to drugs. I never heard anything more about him, so I assume he’s still out there somewhere.

My car has developed engine trouble. I am able to limp into a parking lot. Fortunately, the lot is empty. Since I’m still under warranty, I call the car company’s hotline.

Representative: “[Company].”

Me: “Hi, my car is in limp mode. I have managed to pull into the parking lot of the [Town] Jewish Community Center.”

The representative takes down all my information.

Representative: “Okay, sir, now how will we find the car in the parking lot?”

Me: “I am in the Jewish Community Center parking lot. It’s Saturday. It’s the only car there.”

Representative: *Stifles a chuckle* “Got it!”

I’m the owner of a larger tow company that has the majority of local police departments’ contracts for accidents and impounds. Last night, I was called out at 0030 hours for a rollover one-car accident. It was no big deal, but it was in the county’s largest city, about twenty miles from my office and home. I drove out and recovered the vehicle using a flatbed tow truck.

I am driving back from the accident scene with the totaled car on the back of the truck. I am on a two-lane highway — one lane going each direction with a double yellow line in the center — which has a speed limit of fifty-five. I come across a car going forty miles per hour and occasionally drifting toward the shoulder or the yellow line. After about five minutes of this, I see through her rear window that the person is drinking from a bottle.

I immediately pick up my phone, dial the non-emergency dispatch number, and explain the situation to them. They start an officer out to intercept the driver as, from my description, they have checked all the boxes for a DUI stop.

An officer pulls up behind me while we’re going down the road and turns on his red and blues. I flip on my white and yellow lights as I slow down, signaling the officer to go around as I have no shoulder to go to. As this is happening, the car in front of me immediately SLAMS on its brakes, causing me to lock up my air brakes and just barely miss rear-ending them. The police officer, luckily, is already in the opposite lane, and by the time he reacts to slow down, he has passed both of us.

We are now at about ten miles per hour, and the officer is leapfrogged to the front of the line. He turns his car at a forty-five-degree angle and stops, stopping the car dead in its tracks. I stop with my lights on behind him about two car lengths back, again at a forty-five-degree angle to protect everyone from any oncoming traffic as we are now blocking half of the road.

I jump out and walk around the back of my truck and up the shoulder of the road toward the officer’s cruiser. As I’m doing this, the driver jumps out of her car and starts screaming.

Driver: “That person is stalking me! I’m scared for my life! That rapist followed me from the pub I was at!”

The officer on scene is the same officer I just spent over an hour with on the road cleaning up the wreck that is still on my truck. Out of pure shock, I turn to the officer and say:

Me: “You know there is no way I was anywhere near her, right?”

Thankfully, he confirms it isn’t possible. The driver does not like this one bit. She starts cussing the officer out.

Driver: “Do your job! I pay your salary and that makes you my servant!”

A second officer arrived and parked behind my truck with lights on. I fell back to direct the light traffic that was coming through. As I was directing traffic, I listened to this belligerent woman insult these officers over and over. Of course, she failed the field sobriety test, and out came the breathalyzer. She blew a .12, and as soon as the handcuffs came out, it was like someone lubed the woman up with grease as she was slipping and sliding out of the two officers’ hands.

I watched for probably five minutes as they wrestled her to the ground and finally got her into cuffs. The first officer approached me and asked if I’d like to impound the woman’s car, too. I happily accepted and had it loaded on to my wheel lift in about two minutes.

I was just awoken not too long ago by a call about the woman. She was asking about her car at my office, and one of my dispatchers called to double-check that there wasn’t a hold on the car. It turns out the woman had to wait sixty minutes before we could release her car, as all DUI arrests in that county have a mandatory twelve-hour impound on the vehicle. I’m sure the girls working my office were thrilled to have the company.