Regular Life

About a month ago, I took my car to a local mechanic. It had been slipping, I told him. He checked the transmission fluid and said it looked a little low, then topped it off. When I asked what I owed him, he said, “Oh, don’t worry about that. Just remember me the next time you need your oil changed.”

My next visit was much sooner than that.

The following day as I pulled away from an intersection on the way to work, the transmission slipped out of gear for about a second. Then, it did it at the next intersection. This was not going to be good at all.

I took the car back to the local guy at lunch time, and he kept it for the afternoon. When I spoke to him before leaving work, he said, “It wouldn’t do anything wrong when I drove it.”

When my wife and I went to pick it up, we discovered that, like us, the mechanic is from Arkansas. He grew up living in an old bus on a piece of land his family owned and took baths in a barrel outdoors. His family placing much value on education, he went to college and then wound up owning his own automotive repair shop (i.e., garage) in Texas. There’s a lot I left out, so that’s the long-story-short version. My wife and I both found his story fascinating, and I’m trying to figure out a tactful way to ask him if I can ghost write his memoir.

Oh yeah, back to the car. He said they could open it up, but he wouldn’t know until then whether it would cost $450 or $1750 to repair the transmission. Because we already planned to buy my mother-in-law’s used vehicle, and my car was a Ford with 153,000 miles on it, I wasn’t willing to sink any more money into it.

I drove it another few weeks and only occasionally noticed a problem. I also read some factory recall information online that indicated the mass air flow sensor can cause symptoms that incorrectly point to the transmission. Shannon (aforementioned wife) drove it this past weekend while I was in Arkansas with Ben, and said she had no trouble with it at all.

On my Monday morning drive to work, more than once the transmission slipped out of gear for a full two or three seconds. I had my windows open and thought I noticed a new whining sound echoing off the cars in the opposing lane when I turned left at an intersection. That can’t be good.

The drive home was more of the same, as was Tuesday’s drive in. Then, on my lunch hour Tuesday, the ubiquitous, quasi-Mexican food establishment with a chihuahua mascot earned its nickname.

I drove into Taco Hell.

All is relatively okay when I place my order, and then drive up to the first window. A pretty young girl takes my money and gives me my change, then says, “Have a nice day, sir.”

I smile and coolly tell her to do the same, then hit the accelerator to drive to the second window. The engine revs up, but I go nowhere. I check the automatic shifter between the seats, because sometimes I put it in Park at a restaurant drive-thru. It’s in Drive. I put it in 2, then hit the gas again. Nothing. I put it in 1 and try. Nope. I look behind me. There are six cars waiting, and there is no lane to the right for pulling around idiots who drive on bad transmissions.

I open the door, squeeze out, and walk back to see if anybody in one of those cars will help me push mine out of the way. The first is a woman whose window is still down to place her order. “What’s up?” she asks.

“My car won’t move,” I say.

She gives me that look that indicates she thinks I’m very unfortunate, but that it’s all kind of funny in a way. I look at the other drivers in line. All women. In a manner that I’m sure will be construed as sexist, I give up that cause and head back to my car.

As I’m carefully squeezing back between the car and the drive-thru window, the pretty girl returns and asks in a Mexican accent if I need something.

“My car won’t move,” I say. I put it in drive and try again. Dry heave.

She just gives me a smile and nods.

Not certain she understands, I’m tempted to say, “El carro no movio,” but I smartly resist.

Smile still on her face, she utters some very fast Spanish into her headset. I imagine it translates to something like, “Hey, some stupid gringo broke down in his beater car.”

It is 11:45. Their lunch rush is fast approaching, and I’m marooned. Plus, by this point I’m not leaning toward the mass air flow sensor at all.

I turn off the car, let it sit a few seconds to think about what it has done, and then start it. I put it in drive, hit the gas, and, amazingly, it goes forward. The whine is very loud at this point (from the car, not me), and I figure going directly back to work is my best bet.

About halfway through the one mile drive, the transmission slips into nothingness and I’m coasting on a road with two lanes going one way. I find my hazard light button and engage it. I put the car in 2 and manage to eke out a few more feet. It pukes on that gear and I slip it into 1. I coax enough locomotion to navigate into the parking lot of a large semiconductor company, where I park, get out, and sit on a curb in the shade to eat my cursed spicy chicken taco and chicken quesadilla.

It’s high noon in Texas on a 100-degree day.

Chewing away, knowing full well that I have a replacement for this car virtually waiting in the wings, I pull out my handy phone number reference card and start dialing co-workers, in hopes of finding someone who is not sitting somewhere eating lunch. Someone finally answers and shortly comes to get me.

Alvis picks me up after work, and Shannon comes to get me from his house. The Contour spends the night alone in an unfamiliar setting.

Wednesday, I called Kars4Kids.org, a 501(c)(3) organization. They will come get the car, take the title from me, and in return we get a tax break and three days and two nights at any of a large variety of hotels and resorts in the U.S. I expect they get their money from whatever salvage yard they send to retrieve the car.

It will be between 24 and 72 hours before someone comes to get it. I can’t leave it in another company’s parking lot that long, so I had a co-worker follow me over there. I started it up and shifted it into Drive, then babied it through the last drive we’ll ever share. I cleaned out my personal effects on my lunch hour and bade it farewell.

Thank you, dear 1996 Contour, for eight years of very dependable service (bought her from an Avis rental lot). Thank you for dying at Taco Bell instead of stranding me on the freeway.

Tribute over. On to the next car.

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