Of Mechanics and Mayhem Free Dating, Singles and Personals

Of Mechanics and Mayhem Posted: 10/6/2009 6:38:48 PM
I swear, mechanics are going to be the death of me! I have to ask you, is there something about me that says, "I have money and I'm dying to spend it on you" ?? Perhaps it just says "Hi, I was born yesterday and I'm going to fall for anything you say!" Neither one is true, so whatever it is about me that tells that to mechanics, I wish it would shut up. Let me explain. Now, I usually work on my own car. Not because I'm brilliant or particularly skilled, but because I am poor. REALLY POOR. Have you tried feeding four teenage boys in today's economy on one teacher's salary? Do you know they insist on eating multiple times every single day? Well, they do. Thus, poverty stalks my footsteps. So, the last time the brake pads needed changing on the minivan, I assembled my various sons and announced that I was going to teach them to change them. After all, why did I have so many sons if not to have my car worked on? I handed a breaker bar to Dusty, who proceeded to blithely snap off, not one, but TWO studs off the front passenger wheel. You know, I can remember when that kid was cute. When the sight of his unbelievably long eyelashes gently resting on his tiny sleeping cheek made my heart skip a beat. Now he's a huge, hulking, horrifically strong bull in the proverbial china shop, and I'm not exactly sure when that happened. I sighed over the broken studs, handed the kid a big socket wrench and a hammer and told him to take off the hub and knock the broken stumps out while I went to Napa for new ones. Of course, since Murphy's Law seemed to be in control of this day from the start, they didn't have any. Neither did Checker or two Autozones. I was mystified. Its a 1998 Plymouth Grand Voyager. It's not like it's an exotic part. I finally bought four studs closest in shape to the ones my child had destroyed, and headed home. Yes, you with your hand up. You have a question? Why four? Because this was shaping up to be one of those days in which you start to wonder if the fates really are hovering over your life string with a pair of shears, and on those days, it's really just best to be prepared, don't you agree? I pulled out the bench grinder from the garage and proceeded to shape the heads on a couple of those studs to the best approximation I could to the original parts. I know, all you mechanics out there are cringing and shaking your heads. Hush. I was desperate. And it worked. I got the studs to seat themselves into their respective hollows, and we went on to change the brake pads. I was ridiculously pleased with myself. How could I know that the damage those studs would do to the hub over the next year would eventually cost me $501.48 last week to replace it? Oh, stop laughing at me. It's not nice. Besides, this story is supposed to be making me sound smarter than that. The point to telling you this is to illustrate why, last month, when the brake pads needed changing again, I decided to let a certified mechanic do it. I had noticed when I changed the pads that fateful day, that the rotors could probably have used a change as well, but I was too cheap to do it at the time. So, just before Thanksgiving this last year, I decided to walk into a shop on Hwy 528 and ask them to change both pads and rotors. They quoted me a price just under 300 dollars. I mentally consulted the bank balance and agreed. In a few minutes one of the mechanics waved me over. He had that mournful look mechanics adopt when they intend to charge you alot more than the original quote, but they want you to think they will deeply regret it. He handed me a new estimate for over 540 bucks. My shoulders slumped. The bank balance was NOT going to absorb that kind of bill. "Why is it going to be so much?" I wanted to know. "Oh, you see, we must change the calipers, too. They are ruined." This guy is good. He looks like he could burst into tears from sheer earnestness. "Ruined?" I quiz, "What's wrong with them?" "Oh, you have waited too long to change the brakes, and now, you see, they have overheated." I'm skeptical. "What happens when you overheat calipers?" If possible, he looks even more solemn. "When you overheat the calipers, the seals harden, and now they are going to leak." My ears prick up at the phrase "going to." "Do you mean they aren't leaking right now?" His face falls a little. "Well, no," he admits, "They aren't leaking right this minute. But they will very soon." I press him. "How soon? This week? This month?" "Well, maybe not this month. But very soon!" The poor guy is trying to get the earnest look back on his face. I grab a piece of paper and a pencil and sketch a fair approximation of a brake caliper, complete with the soon-to-be-failing seal. I tap the paper. "Is this the seal you are talking about?" I query. The mechanic peers at the paper and swallows hard. "Yes, ma'am, that's the one." Notice, suddenly, I'm "ma'am"?? I ignore his discomfort and pretend to be worried. "So, do you think this seal will fail all at once? Are my children in danger of dying in a fiery crash?" I gulp in what I consider a fair approximation of anxiety. He's squirming now. It's really kinda cute. "No, ma'am, it will probably leak gradually." "Oh, good!" I exclaim. "Then I can probably just check the brake fluid often, like say, once a week? If the fluid level goes down, then I can just bring it right in and you can change the calipers!" I give him a bright smile. He gets an idea. You can practically see the light bulb light up over his left ear. "But, miss, the calipers only come as a set with the brake pads. If you wait to change the calipers, you will just be having to change the brake pads again. I don't want to waste your money." Sure he doesn't. I widen my eyes in sheer innocence and lean toward him. He swallows hard once more. I wonder if he will be able to survive this, since this poor soul obviously has had little experience in being invited to drown in pools of green. But, I've got the advantage now--I can almost hear my bank balance sighing in relief--so I press on. "You mean," I gasp in a fair semblence of shock, "your parts supplier won't take parts back on warranty? Why do you use them?" I have to give Caliper Guy, as I'm now affectionately thinking of him, credit. He knows when he's beaten. "Just the brakes and rotors, then," he mumbles as he goes back to my car. Now, you'd think the story would be over right there....I am woman, hear me roar, right? HA! You don't really think my life is ever that simple, do you? A couple weeks later, just before school ended for Christmas holiday, it began to snow. I let 15-year-old Jesse drive home. After all, the snow wasn't sticking to the roads yet, and the experience would be good for him. He turned the car onto Corrales Road and yelled. "Mom, something's wrong with the steering wheel! I can't turn it!" I grab the steering wheel and help him wrestle the car over to the shoulder--or what passes for a shoulder on Corrales Road. Great. Power steering is out. We're driving the afore-mentioned Plymouth Grand Voyager, 3.3 L engine, serpentine belt. I really don't want to see under the hood, but I open it anyway. Sure enough, the belt has jumped right off. I don't have power steering, but I also don't have a water pump, air conditioning or an alternator. Who thought up these stupid serpentine belts anyway? I wish they were right here with me, in the mud beside the road in a SNOWSTORM. I start yanking on what pulleys you can reach on the 3.3 L engine they managed to shove into this unbelievably tiny engine compartment. All the pulleys are turning just fine. I'm gonna have to get dirty and get under this thing. Don't you know, the belt tensioner is hanging broken? Of course its something I can't fix beside the road in a snowstorm! Anyone like to guess which mechanic is closest? Oh yes, your friend and mine, Caliper Guy. His shop is maybe 4 miles away, and I'm going to have to try to get there. I start the car, turn off all the lights, radio, windshield wipers, heater, etc (trying to conserve the battery), and start down the road, keeping a careful eye on the thermostat. I got three miles down the road. I'm not kidding. I must have the world's very worst battery. My sons, Dusty and Jesse, weren't daunted at all by that last mile. "We'll just push it," they announce, and jump out of the car. I'm laughing. Silly kids, the last mile is uphill. They don't get 50 feet before they are back in the car, groaning. Just about that time, my boss drives up. He turns out to be brilliant, in that his car's bumper matches up to mine nicely, and he pushes us the rest of the way. I pull up to the mechanic's bay, being pushed by the principal's Lebaron, in full view of Caliper Guy. I walk in and shake his hand. Now, its clear he remembers me, because this time he starts out calling me ma'am. I apologize for dropping in without an appointment, and explain the problem. "Oh, and you'll need to charge the battery before you can get it into the bay," I add, helpfully. "I completely ran the battery down trying to get here." Do you think he believed me? Do you think he went outside carrying a portable battery charger, or perhaps another battery? Of course not! He walked straight to the driver's door, got in and TRIED TO START IT! Again, I'm not kidding. After all I had done to patiently teach that man I am not an idiot, he tried to start a car he'd just seen being pushed into his yard and been told had a dead battery. You know, come to think of it, maybe mechanics won't be the death of me after all. They say laughter is the best medicine, so perhaps I can look forward to a long and happy life....all thanks to my mechanic.