Broken engines & bullshit

I laughed as I hung up the phone.  A male friend spent an hour describing an argument he had with the serpentine belt of his car.  Apparently, unarmed with the knowledge of what the belt’s actual function was, he lost the fight and spent several hours stranded on the side of a deserted road.   After my obvious shock of learning of a man who is mechanically impaired, (I was not aware such creatures existed), I wiped the tears of laughter from my face. My dad was responsible for my enlightenment about the importance of basic car repair.  I remember my own experience with automotive rebellion.

In my early twenties, 'Lucy' was my teacher. She was a deep-maroon 1986 Reliant K with a 2.5-liter engine. Shaped like a cereal box on wheels, my little 4-door sedan was anything but sexy.  Even the 5-speed manual transmission (normally a feature that makes you feel at least a LITTLE sporty) could not change the fact that you felt as appealing as if you were barhopping with a nun.  There was absolutely no sensuality to this car.  One particularly wintry day, this Reliant (as in: derivative of the word 'reliable'-adjective:  having or exhibiting reliability, dependable...really, look it up) appeared to have forgotten its purpose.  Rushing out to the parking lot, late for work as usual, I turned the key expecting to hear the familiar drone of her engine. Hamsters exercising in their wheel sounded more powerful than this car. Instead, a low chorus of hub, hub, hub, pffftt assaulted my ears shortly before she gasped her final breath.  Trudging back inside, I made the call to my employer who felt it necessary to scream about my lack of reliability. Ironic, isn't it?  I hub, hub, hub, pffftt-ed at him and proceeded to hang up and look for a mechanic.  

Now, any female will tell you there is NOTHING worse than trying to find a mechanic. This becomes especially unnerving when you are attempting to explain the problem to some guy in a blue shirt whose name patch looks like it says 'Mary' because there is so much grease covering it.
 

I replicated the noise I heard for 'Mary' as he looked at me dumbfounded. For a moment, I envisioned his eyes rolling back in his head just before he viciously attacked me with an exhaust pipe.  As the cigarette dangling on his lip released a long stream of ashes that fell squarely into his pocket, I could not help but feel completely clueless and totally exposed as a female. I tried to comfort myself by imagining how vulnerable he would feel if he were to walk into a gourmet kitchen (my ‘hood’) but the dunce cap I imagined on my head would not go away.
 

'Mary' looked at me in wide-eyed wonder before pulling his ash-covered pen from his breast pocket, taking my name and telling me to have a seat.
"It's gonna be at least an hour before we're done diagnosing it." Smoke escaped from his lips with every word, mingling with my expensive perfume and soaking me in that bar-chick smell.  I'd never felt more attractive in a cheap-bowling-alley way.
 

Amidst stares from the rest of the fraternity brothers gathered in the waiting area, I grabbed a seat in the furthest corner and hid my face behind the first magazine I found. 'Car and Driver', the summer issue from 1972.  I'd been looking forward to reading that one.  No chance of finding a copy of Cosmo or People magazine at that dive.
 

Minutes ticked away like hours.  ESPN blared the latest football scores and re-played game highlights.  The good old boys in the waiting room discussed athlete's salaries and became belligerent about who-deserves-what.  Their conversation got louder by the minute.
 

"It's a fuckin' game, damn it!"  A few heads turned in my direction. I assumed they were waiting for me to comment on their language but I'm not stupid.  Objecting would have the equivocal consequences of walking into an NFL locker rooms and screaming, "Football is for sissies!"
 I ducked quietly behind my magazine and read about the 'amazing new Ford Pinto' with eager anticipation.

"Buncha pampered asses… don't know how good they got it!" The conversation raged on.  All I could think was,  'I want my Dad'.
 

Seventy-two minutes later, 'Mary' called me to the counter.
"You got a bad carburetor. Need to replace it.  You’re probably looking at about three-hundred bucks when you add labor." He growled at me with an evil smirk.
 I twisted my face into a knot. Something didn't add up."My carburetor," I asked, "How can that be?"
He laughed a 'holier-than-thou' laugh.  "Yeah lady, you got a vacuum leak. Do you know what that is? It means you gotta replace your carburetor." He turned to the brothers who were hanging on every word and rolled his eyes. They smiled in conspiracy.
 "Yes, yes, I know what that means.  I just have one question."
 He looked at me with disgust.  I could almost see him gloating over his imagined superiority.
"What's that, doll?"
 I took a deep breath, summoning all my courage.
"My car is fuel injected, Mary, so how can it need a carburetor?"  His eyes took on a deer in the headlight look as I continued. "1986 saw the end of the 2.6 liter engine and the addition of fuel injection on the 2.2.  The five-speed manual became standard, and a 2.5-liter engine was standard. This 2.5 had single-point fuel injection.”
At that point, the cigarette fell from his mouth.
 

"A carburetor supplies a pre-emulsified froth of fuel and air into the engine at a preset ratio while fuel injection sprays droplets of fuel at the proper air-to-fuel ratio all the time. NEITHER of these have anything to do with a vacuum leak.  So tell me again. Why do I need to replace a part that my car does not have in the first place?"
 

'Mary's' brothers in arms deserted him suddenly, heading for the coffee machine with untold speed.
 

"Uh, um, I must've looked at the wrong work order, Miss."  He stuttered with newfound humility.  "I'll check that out and be right back."  He slithered timidly back to the shop area.
 

When I left the building, I had a new vacuum hose in place, 'MARV'S' sincerest apologies and a greater respect for my Dad.  He was a car salesman for over twenty years.  He encouraged me to learn what I could about my vehicle so I would not be taken advantage of by mechanics looking to make an easy buck.  Bless you, Dad.  If you are up there listening, thank you very much.  That knowledge came in handy ten years later when I rebuilt the cylinder head on my Ford Probe...by myself.  The guy at the auto parts store wasn't very helpful.  I think his name was Roberta, but I'm not sure.  His shirt was pretty greasy.