The only thing not typical about this particular Tuesday afternoon was parking in the Yale structure so that I could get to class on time. I sat through Indian Philosophy for the requisite two-and-a-half hours, learned about various proofs for the existence of a self (Vedic teachings: ‘suck it, Buddha!’), and then walked back to my car. I was debating with myself if I wanted to go straight home or if I wanted to go do something on the way home.

I got in the car, pushed the button to start it, let the button go, and had a wave of fear wash over me. The starter did not disengage when I let go of the button. The car was running, but so was the starter motor. The frantic whirring made it sound like the Z was freaking out as badly as I was. I pressed the button again to try to turn the car off. To my dismay, the button did nothing. I couldn’t turn the car off. I tried flipping the ignition lock switch a couple times, pressing the button to try to turn off the car, still nothing.

The starter motor sounded more and more like it was on the point of failure. The stress had me sobbing and in tears. I put the car in reverse and dumped the clutch, hoping I could stall out the motor. Good thinking right? Except that the engine was revved just enough by the ever-whirring starter motor that all it did was actually back out the car. My only option was to kill it by disconnecting the battery.

I popped the hood. The starter began to smoke and whine. All I had was a pair of tiny channel locks I keep in the center console to pull the hood release… I loosened the bolt on the battery terminal through tears and sobs and curses. As I was trying to get it off, the starter burst in to flames and rattled to a halt, electrical burning filling the air. I pulled the battery terminal and started frantically looking around for a fire extinguisher, as the flames died down and the smoke dissipated.

Still full of panic and adrenaline, I called Daniel, sobbing and crying. “My car just exploded!” I blurted out (I did not feel like I was exaggerating at the time. It was a traumatic situation). Ultimately he got me calm enough to think of solutions (bless him, always saving me), and I got the car parking paid for until the next day.

Today, Cary met me at the parking lot where the Z lay motionless and dead. We inspected the area with the starter, and it looked as though the damage was contained to just it, thankfully. I watched as Cary pulled apart the ignition system of my car, trying to find the correct wires to link together to allow us to push start it. Apparently the button start module had catastrophically failed, so we could not get it to turn stay in the on setting without modification. After calling the people who published the wiring diagram for the Datsun 280 ZX series Fascists several times, we got the car set up for the hotwiring.

We dragged it to the top of the hill and pushed it down, popping the clutch and jumping the engine to life. I drove the Z home gingerly with two wires under the steering column elctrical-taped together to keep it running until I could get it in the garage and pull the wires apart. I had never driven a hot wired car before.