Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts
By Alyce Wilson
April 29, 2003 - Stranded in Cowtown, USA
Twice I've taken my truck to garages in Philly, and twice I've been charged upwards of $1,000 just to make repairs. The second time I said, "Nothing doing." Ever since then I've taken my truck back to the trusted mechanics in the town where I grew up.
The plan was simple enough: leave Thursday night so the truck could be brought to the shop bright and early on Friday morning.
They were supposed to inspect it, and the original plan was to pick it up late in the evening, spend the weekend with the 'rents and then cruise on back to Philly.
The Garage Gods laugh at plans like this. They scoff at them. Deride them, even. They pour hot grease over your plans and call you in the morning.
When I think about it, I must admit that for awhile now I'd been smelling wafts of that noxious, sweet smell more commonly known as exhaust. So it wasn't a terrible surprise that they'd have to repair a leak. I just didn't expect it to be such an involved process.
As my mechanic explained, there were several broken bolts around the exhaust manifold, five to be exact. Because they were broken, they couldn't simply be removed and replaced. Instead, they had to be drilled out, the hole needed to be rethreaded and new bolts placed in to secure the manifold and seal the leaks. Without this work -- which, he warned, would take hours -- my truck would not pass inspection.
He warned it might not be done on Friday. I told him I was cool with that, that I'd already informed my employer that I might not be available on Monday. This was probably the wrong thing to say.
Given that I'd implicitly given the go-ahead to put things off a little bit, the garage worked on other cars whose owners, presumably, were more forceful about their need for a quick turn-around. I'm not convinced that any work was done on the truck on Friday. Poor Red Arrow (for such is her name) sat there, ignored and overlooked, awaiting the surgery that would return her to me.
So instead of relaxing and enjoying the weekend, I had a nagging undertone the entire time: "Will the truck be ready for me to leave Monday night? And exactly how many hours of work are we talking?"
I called a couple of times on Monday, and was told each time that it was progressing, but slowly. At about 4:30 p.m., I suddenly felt a feeling of peace and contentment pass over me. Things were nearing the end, I was certain.
This time when I called, the mechanic admitted reluctantly that they'd have to work on it for a couple of hours Tuesday morning. After a quick call to my editor, we arranged things so I could start work in the late afternoon, and suddenly I felt relief.
I hung out with my dad in the laundry mat, reading the Lisa Marie Presley interview from Rolling Stone, trying not to think of the hundred things I should be doing instead.
Today, after forking out considerably less than $1,000, despite all of the hours of work, my dog and I and Red Arrow were on the road to home. And all the thoughts and ideas and experiences that rambled through my head the last few days are going to take a couple days to amble out. But that's okay. I'll get back in the groove.
When I got back, the mail was piled high on the chair outside my door, courtesy of my upstairs neighbors, kind enough to bring it in out of the rain. The magic dishwashing faerie had not taken care of the stack in the sink, and the answering machine had several messages. My hotmail account was filled to overflowing, and my dog immediately jumped on the bed in glee and began digging her way under the covers.
Home, sweet home.
Moral:
Sometimes, you have to just roll with it.
Copyright
2003 by Alyce Wilson
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