Automotivation

So, you might have noticed that I wasn't here yesterday.

Okay, so actually, you probably didn't, but I like to pretend that I provide something to a select few people-- be it a little bit of escapism, a momentary enjoyable read, a measuring bar to point at and say if I ever get that low you should put me out of my misery, whatever--  so humor me.  

On my way home from work Friday, as I was getting on the highway, my car's brake and battery lights both came on.  As a car driver, there is nothing quite as stomach-churning and sickening as red lights on the dashboard just as you are accelerating to a speed that places you right alongside an 18-wheeler, especially when you're a solid 30 miles from home.  I checked my emergency brake and made sure I had no other battery-related things running, like the dome lights or cigarette lighter, or little vagabond kids screwing with the automatic windows, but everything checked out clean.  Fortunately, a few moments before I was about to go into full-on Why me, Why now, Why the Fuck mode, the two lights went out.  Fearing the worst, I cautiously went a very proper (and very unlike me) 55 miles an hour the whole way home.  The lights never again came on.  Admittedly, I sort of put it out of my head.

I had to make a run to my friends' house that night, and upon starting Reno (that's the name of my car, for those who are unaware) in the driveway, the red dash lights came on again.  And right about the time I caught my breath and was about to say "I wonder what the hell is up", they went out again.

By that time, it was patently obvious in my head that my car was fucking with me.   Haaaaa!  Made you go a legit speed limit, fucker!  This is for not taking me to the car wash after that flock of birds treated me like a four-wheeled toilet.  Oh, and that $2.31 a gallon swill you put in my tank... let me tell you, there are such things as standards of good taste, and you skirt them every off-pay day, you bastard! 

So I make an appointment with my dealership to take Reno in on Monday.  Let me be really clear and frank about a couple things here.  First, the people I've worked with when I've had to bring Reno to the dealership for repairs or maintenance are some of the nicest people you'd ever want to meet.  That said, there are two places I utterly, without reservation, hate to go: hospitals and auto repair shops.  Hospitals are for more obvious reasons, naturally.  

But auto repair shops know me on sight.  I'm the guy with the seemingly invisible tattoo on my forehead that says, "Potential Pillage Victim."  I'm not a complete prat; I do know a little about cars, other than the fact that I have to get in one to go somewhere.  I know-- in theory-- where all the fluids go; I know how to change tires and wiper blades and filters; I know that I should have certain types of maintenance every few months; I know that these certain types of maintenance always cost 20-50% more than they're ever advertised at, because exchanges like this always take place:

Repairman: So we've drained your oil; what are we going to fill you with?  Same stuff we did before, 5W30?
Me: (Trying to appear confident) Yes, definitely.
Repairman: Synthetic blend?
Me: (Smiling)  Of course.
Repairman: I notice you haven't changed your air filter; it's looking a little dirty.  Want us to take care of that?
Me: (Nervously)  Uhm.
Repairman:  It's no worries.  Your car probably doesn't need it to keep up with all the other cars in its model class.  It'll just lag a little bit behind.  Like the special-ed student with a helmet.  MPG will drop like a rock, but that's okay.  You probably just drive down the block and back, right?
Me: (More nervously)  No, I drive across town to work.  Crap.  Uhm, I guess, if it's not too expensive.
Repairman:  Nah, it's the cheapest repair we do.  Expensive, though?  If you don't change the shot PDG bearing we found; if it's not changed, the whole transmission could go... that would be expensive.  Wouldn't want that, would you?
Me: (Completely blank stare)  I... I...
Repairman: Of course you wouldn't.  I also see your framistat gasket housing is not properly sealed.
Me: (Helplessly)  Is... is that important?
Repairman: (Gives the over-the-glasses "Are You Kidding Me?" look, sort of like my Lovely Fiancee™ when I ask if we really need to keep the cat.)
Me:  O-okay, fine.
Repairman: Excellent, sir.  Rough estimate is $1700, and we should be done with you in about four hours; in the meantime, you can feel free to enjoy our waiting room, where we have some free turgid coffee, and you can watch some brain-cell deadening daytime network TV and fold yourself into a fetal position while you wait.

I am exceedingly fortunate for my Lovely Fiancee™, who knows more than her fair share about cars.  I wish she were here now.   She might have been able to tell me exactly why I stayed five and a half hours at the dealership after they couldn't reproduce the problem and paid $250 for preventative maintenance that we both agreed would likely do nothing about the lights coming on.  No, my repairpeople couldn't duplicate the issue, and couldn't find any reason why it was happening (if in fact I wasn't hallucinating it.  Twice.  While not being on drugs at the time).  The alternator was fine.  The battery was fine.  The electrical system was fine.  The computer wouldn't tell what the issue was.   And in the meantime, while they tried to diagnose the issue, I sat through Good Morning America, Live with Regis and Kelly, The View, the Noon News, part of All My Children and at least one other show that I think my subconscious has mercifully purged from my memory, because there was no remote to change the channel.  Preferably to off.   (Especially The View.  You could make a convincing drinking game by taking a shot every time someone on that show says something that you honestly believe they need to be backhanded for.)

And while the dealership couldn't figure the battery and brake lights issue, they did discover my brake pads were worn to almost nothing... y'know, just to make sure I didn't leave there with a full wallet or anything.  I guess that it was probably be nice to find that out from them, rather than learning about it shortly before ramming full speed into a school bus full of children.  So there is that.  But I still get the feeling that those dashboard lights were just a cry for help.  Maybe Reno's just depressed, and if so, I in effect just paid his therapy bill by buying him something nice to wear.

Next time, though, I'm gonna see if a nice pine-scented air-freshener will do the trick.  With the money I make, only one of us can afford to be medicated.