Car Repairs, Or How I Pay Dearly For My Automotive Idiocy

The other day, at a red light, my silver 2000 Ford Taurus made a shriek under the hood similar to the one I make when Xteen says "Let's see what's on the Hallmark channel."

However, instead of going into the kitchen and immediately pounding four beers and then sitting in front of the computer while the wife watches "The Day The Gym Teacher Cried", my car decided to continue to make the noise while idling until I decided to take it into The Cash Vacuum shop, also known as my dealership.

Xteen followed me to the joint and as soon as I got out of the car to leave it, a downpour unlike no other seen since Noah levied its wrath on my head while lightning and thunder filled the sky as a I tried to wrestle my metal car key into a metal hole in a metal repair bay door.

I should have taken that as an omen.

I get into work and call the place, since it wasn't open when I dropped the key off. I get Mr. Personality Plus on the phone. His alter-ego is Mr. Conversation Killer.

Me: "Hi, I dropped my car off this morning to have some work done."

Him: "Yeah?"

Me: "I thought you might want to know which car is mine, where I parked it, where the key is, what is wrong, and where I put the lube to make this a little less painful."

Him: (silence)

Despite his reluctance to hear any information that would help him a) do his job and b) charge me an outrageously high price for said job, I divulged all the info anyway and told him I thought the problem was "a belt".

I'm certainly not Mr. Goodwrench at all, but usually when my car does the Hallmark Channel screech, it is usually a "belt" of some kind, or at least that's what all the other con artists tell me is the problem. I usually just hand over my credit card and $100-$200 later, I am back watching ESPN and don't have to worry about a Jaclyn Smith movie for a good long time.

So, I'm sitting here waiting for "the call" and it inevitably comes. I should have known it was the dealership, because instead of ringing, the phone taunted me with a laugh like Renfield from Dracula.

I answer the diabolical call and a man is on the other end, a different man than Mr. Personality Plus. This is Mr. Take a Deep Breath and Maybe It Won't Hurt So Much.

He starts the conversation with "Sir, hi, sir, how are you doing today, sir."

This phrase is the aforementioned "lube". Each "sir" in the sentence is an increment on how much I am going to be taken for. This is not a good opening sentence to hear.

What follows this is the equivilent of getting a prostate exam by a doctor who has had his arm cryogenically frozen and also happens to have fingernails the size of the chick from David Bowie's "China Girl" video. Oh baby, just you shut your mouth indeed.

He then tells me that he has a "list" which seems odd to me because unless it is a one item list that has "belt" written on it, I'm in for a suck-ass day.

I'll save you the grizzly details, but I heard words like "pulleys", "water pump", "new parts", "the best I can do", "prison sex", "financially cripple", "put my kids through college", and "you know jack shit about cars."

Quite honestly, he could have said, "The problem is that the johnson rod is chafing against the philpot gasket causing a rudimentary friction disintegration of the alevium shaft which will ultimately cause you to have to watch the Hallmark Channel indefinitely."

Either way, it results in drool pooling in the corners of my mouth, my eyes glassing over, and me instinctually reaching for my wallet.

The alternative options to getting the damn thing fixed are not good:

Take it to another place for a second opinion.

This isn't optimal because it is SUCH a pain in the ass to be without a car for the day, nevermind an additional day to bring it someplace else where they will undoubtedly find something else wrong with the friggin thing. Plus, the original place will still change a ridiculous "diagnostic fee" even if I don't have them fix the car.

The other option is to learn all about cars and know exactly what needs to be done and, gasp!, do it myself. That's also not optimal because I'm lazy and really don't like Lava soap.

I was going to treat myself to a cool 35th birthday gift, but now, it looks like that gift to myself will appear as "labor" on the receipt.

So, right now, those bastards are laughing their collective asses off at me while replacing my johnson rod or ball bearings, or whatever else is supposedly wrong. Me? I'll just go there after work and fork over the plastic. They'll take their $600 from me with nary a kiss on the cheek or a promise to call in the morning. A heavy price to pay, but let's be real. It beats the hell out of sitting through the Rosie O'Donnell as the Retarded Sister movie.

- Dim.