How ‘The Dukes of Hazzard’ Saved Me
I had an hour to kill with my cold, dead car.
It was raining. Hard, unrelenting torrents.
This was a problem since my borrowed car suffered from “wet wires.” At least that’s what I dubbed them. Every time more than a drizzle fell, the car’s engine would die. No mechanic had been able to identify or to fix the problem; so I lived with it, avoiding puddles and rainstorms entirely.
I was young, a graduate student living with her parents, and still raw from a dissolved relationship. I needed my friends. Staying home — or even worse, turning back for home — was not a valid option. So I kept driving.
I prayed the engine would stay dry enough to run. But my prayers were drowned. My car died in the middle of the highway.
I eased my way across traffic and into the first parking lot I saw. The car came to a stop, lights fizzling out.
There used to be (or perhaps still is?) a certain class of motels nicknamed No-Tell Motels. These establishments rent rooms by the hour — or however long a guest would like to enjoy its threadbare, dingy, and oft-stained ambiance.
There also used to be no cell phones, no means of calling someone without a landline. I had no choice. I had to call someone for help.
I got out of my car and ran through the rain into the motel’s reception area. It was quiet, and two decades ago, its goldenrod, avocado, and cantaloupe furnishings would have been tasteful decor.
The employee behind the desk looked behind me for my company, listened to my tale of woe, and turned the desk phone to me while saying, “No charge.”
I phoned my friends to tell them I’d be late. Then, I phoned my parents: I explained I was fine, my friends were picking me up, and I’d bring the car home in the morning. This line of reasoning was apparently unacceptable. Giving no explanation, my parents told me they’d be at the motel in an hour. My friends would have to venture on without me.
At this point, I had an hour to kill with a cold, dead car. The hotel employee invited me to watch television with him, as his favorite show was about to start. I looked around the lobby and then at my short, greasy-haired benefactor and agreed.
His favorite show was The Dukes of Hazzard (1979–85), a family-friendly, action-comedy series that ran on CBS for 7 seasons.
The show’s premise is simple: in Hazzard County, Alabama, cousins Bo Duke (John Schneider) and Luke Duke (Tom Wopat) are on probation for running moonshine. They fill their days in a 1969 Dodge Charger (a legitimate member of the cast itself) embroiled in strange schemes initiated by the greedy county commissioner, Boss Hogg (Sorrell Book), and his goofy sidekick, Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane (James Best).
In hindsight, The Dukes of Hazzard is simple, backward, and preposterously dumb. Yet that night, waiting for my parents in the dry and occasionally bustling motel reception area, I had a good time. The little man laughed heartily at the antics of the Hazzard boys, at how they thwarted the mean guys and executed stunts with their orange car.
My parents arrived within the hour, shocked where I was sitting, so happily chatting with a strange old man who fit perfectly into his armchair. We headed home, me already planning my next night out.
Other than the show’s theme song, a rousing and happy tune, the appeal of The Dukes of Hazzard did not last past that evening.
But what did last was the memory of a man who shared his lobby, his favorite show, and his phone with a drenched young woman dressed up to dance, but who instead, sat damp and happy on a decades-old fuzzy gold couch.
