Parked In the Jungle

We'd been living in Atlanta for six months when we got a call from a payphone in the Florida Panhandle, a few hundred miles to the south.  It was Mjoy's brother; he'd moved from Moab to Florida and was hoping we'd visit him before he headed to Gainesville to get an apartment near the horse-massage school he wanted to attend.  Seemed like a good idea, so we arranged to meet him at the intersection of two deserted rural roads near his "campsite," which turned out to be a patch of swamp in some pretty terrifying Deliverance country.  He'd just pulled his truck into the woods, where it promptly stalled due to the incredible humidity sweating up his distributor.  The area was strewn with rusting abandoned appliances, shotgun shells, and other emblems of North Florida culture, so he was understandably nervous that he'd soon be fed to the gators by enraged locals.  The HEI in the Impala proved impervious to dampness, and we were soon able to get the truck started and back to civilization or, in this case, Tallahassee.