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.
"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.
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.
"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.