“Now, Mrs. Burnett…er, Baker Burnett,” the mechanic said, assuming that I didn’t know coolant from Coolio, which I don’t, “as you can plainly see, your DPFE sensor is in dire need of replacement.” He then pointed to something the size of a Cocoa Puff.
“It looks awfully small,” I whined. “How much will it cost?” The answer, as usual, was $175, including labor. “Hey,” I said, “can’t we just skip it? I mean, I really need a pedicure this week.”
He lectured me on emissions standards and I thought I figured I’d kiss the pedicure AND the broomstick skirt good-bye. “Can’t I wait a couple of months?” I got more lectures about permanent damage and more costly repairs later.
“Oh, go ahead, then.” I pouted. After an hour in the toxic waiting room with only a tattered WILDLIFE magazine and the smell of burned coffee and tires to keep me company, the mechanic returned to inform me that my automatic transmission fluid was black.
“It’s my best color,” I said.
“It needs immediate replacement,” he said. “In fact, all your fluids are in terrible shape. Your power steering fluid and your radiator coolant are practically gummy!” He went on, blah, blah, blah, but I was thinking about my dad explaining that people should change the oil every fifty-thousand miles . . . or something like that.
I’d rather buy a new car than maintain the old one. I bought my present car after my mid-sized, fuel-efficient, non-ozone-eatin’ car left me stranded by the roadside. As I sat in my smoking hunk of metal on the shoulder of the freeway, hazard lights flashing (and who knew their usefulness went beyond parking in the fire lane at Wal-Mart to run in for milk?), I was mortified to report that no one stopped to help.
I waved to an elderly lady who looked unlikely to hit me in the head and drag me off into Bois d’Arc creek to live with the swamp people, but she just gave me the finger. If I had not had my cell phone, I would be there right now, wasting away with only a pack of Chiclets and half a hairy fruit roll-up to sustain me.
Oddly enough, just five days earlier I had joined a nationally respected automobile club, whose initials are AAA. When I called the toll-free help line, I told the woman that smoke was pouring from beneath the hood of my car. I thought she might say, “Stop, drop, and roll,” but she seemed unimpressed. Apparently, she gets these calls all day from Tapeworm, Alabama, to Moose Butt, Alaska.
I gave her my location, giving the nearest town as being approximately two miles south of it on Highway 75. “Ma’am,” she snarled, “in the future, it is always a good idea to make a mental note of each exit you pass so that you will know exactly where you are at all times.”
“What am I--Rain Man?” I snapped. “No one makes a mental note of what exit they’re driving past. Six minutes till Spring Creek Parkway…”
After another testy ten minutes or so, during which time she asked everything except my shoe size and favorite brand of detergent, she asked me to repeat the nature of my car’s problem. “Well,” I began AGAIN, “there’s a gauge blinking red, smoke billowing out from under the hood, and an awful burning smell as if wires have all fused together into one charred mess.”
There was a pause, and then she asked—and I am not making this up—“Ma’am, is the vehicle drivable?”