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October 21, 2005

Car Talk

I have an excuse for being a pathetic blogger, really I do. All of my free evening time has lately been spent giving this a (phase I) redesign, and it's getting another (phase II) redesign shortly, so my readership may dwindle from 2 to 1 (not counting evil comment spamming bots). Also, I had to take my car in to get inspected last night, and that took, as usual, about four times as much time the mechanic said it would when I brought the car in.

As a car owner in New York City, I've had various NYC car-related experiences. I've had a nasty note left on my windsheild. I've gotten parking tickets for things I haven't done, fought them, and lost. I'm familiar with holidays like "Shemini Atzereth," which allow me to keep my current parking spot longer than 10 minutes. Finally, I frequent places like gas stations, car washes, and, most frighteningly, auto repair garages. I would avoid them completely if the state and federal governments didn't require an annual $37 inspection.

It's somewhat embarrassing. I've owned my car for 6 years and my father used for fix and sell cars for a living, but I am clueless about the innards of my Chevy Lumina. Each time I'm forced to interact with someone who does, I vow silently to myself that I will enroll in some sort of Automotive Basics 101 course so I won't feel so helpless the next time around. I never do. When a mechanic explains what needs to be fixed, I try really hard to understand what's going on, but I can barely hold up my end of the conversation. I always end up paying lots of money.

For instance, last night, I walked in to Pep Boys and asked for an inspection. I remembered to bring the registration and everything. I asked how much it would cost. $37.

Then, when I came back to pick it up, I found out that my car had failed.

"The brakes need an adjustment," they say. "Why?" I ask. "Blah blah brake pads blah blah [gesticulating] blah blah parking brake blah adjustment blah blah could kill some children," they say.

Honestly, it ended with "could kill some children," said with a completely straight face. I stare, trying not to laugh, trying to seem concerned. I also try to come off like I know my car so well that the "blah blah parking brake" couldn't possibly be the problem. I thought we'd gotten "the brakes done" recently, and I know I wrote a hefty check to have some other part NEAR the brakes replaced a couple of months ago. I try hard to remember some jargon from those adventures, but "rotor" wasn't the right word, and my Dad kindly sheparded me through the part replacement, having a grand old time with his friends at the garage all the while.

So I throw up my hands (mechanic-style) and say, "But I thought we just did that! We just got that.... uh, that THING replaced."

The mechanic stares. I start describing the THING.

"It's, you know, that metal bar that connects...[here I realized I have no idea what it connects to]...I mean, that's in the back. It's, like, a metal rod? [I use my hands to convey "metal rod" here, expecting that my vague image of it might help things along.] I think we, um, dealt with the brakes too?"

"Did you have the brakes replaced?" mechanic guy asks.

"Uh, no, but, um...." I say. I debate calling Dad or Derek for backup. Then I give in. "How much will it cost?" I ask.

This is how all my conversations with automechanics go. It's humiliating, because I have no idea if I actually need whatever I've been told I need.

One time, when my battery died while parked (we left an interior light on), I called AAA to get a restart. Some very shady-looking guys came over, made a suspiciously lame attempt to start it with one of those charger things, and gave up. They needed to "bring it in" -- which is automechanic speak for "this chick knows nothing about cars, let's convince her she needs to buy stuff she doesn't need." (Next time I'm calling a friend for the jump.)

Years ago, with my previous car -- a station wagon -- some Exxon guys tried hard to convince me that if I drove another foot all four tires would blow. "I wouldn't leave this garage," they said, raising an eyebrow. I'm very proud that I had the confidence to leave that garage and get just one tire replaced at the Sunoco next door. But still, I barely know what I'm talking about, so I'm easy prey. While Pep Boys is much more reputable and I probably did need the brakes adjusted last night, this is based completely on trust, and I'm still suspicious.

For twenty minutes, I sat in one of those greasy garage waiting rooms staring at an army recruitment brochure holder that said "MONEY!" in huge font and "The Army Reserve" in tiny font. Then, it came to me.

"It was the stabilizer bar!" I say triumphantly to the mechanics standing around.

"Oh," one says.

Apparently this is unrelated. Still, a shred of my self-confidence is restored.

Later, another mechanic rolls out one of my tires to show me a nail clearly embedded in it. I'm releived to hear that only adds another $15 to my bill, but I say, "Those tires are new!" and get a pained expression on my face. I roll my eyes and look around indignantly, like maybe they'll give me a refund or something. I thought they might be new, sort of. It seemed like the right thing to do. I can't shake the urge to try to be one of the boys, ridiculously inappropriate as that may be.

Anyway, as a result of last night's adventure at Pep Boys, I'm on a crusade to get another course introduced to the standard high school curriculum (in addition to Personal Finance 101): Automechanics 101: How to Change a Tire, Change the Oil, Jump Start the Car, and Talk to Mechanics. This may not be necessary in Des Moines, but it should probably be incorporated into the Regents exams for New Yorkers. Listening to episodes of Car Talk on NPR just isn't doing the trick.

Posted by csageday at October 21, 2005 12:23 AM

Comments

Posted by: Cindy at October 21, 2005 11:29 AM