Well, That Was a Quick Trip

What next?

Seems I just left for my retreat trip and suddenly I’m unloading the car back at home again. Time flies when you’re having fun!

Oh wait. Full stop! I never left.

The non-trip began when I topped off the gas tank the day before my planned departure. I drove about 3 blocks and the instrument cluster started screeching, “Danger! Danger! Danger Will Robinson!” In my mind’s eye, I could see Robot flapping his dryer vent hose arms.

How timely. My next planned stop was a car parts store to get a windshield repair kit to deal with a chip, anyway.

Phew. Not a lot of cars in the parking lot. I step into the store.

A clerk, an older man with a shock of gray grizzled hair and crooked glasses, slowly shuffled up to the counter upon seeing my approach. Might the Muppet Show be missing one of the balcony old guys? I was half expecting some witty repartee.

“Could you please put the code reader on my car?” I asked.

“EH? WHAT’S THAT?” he said.

“CODE READER,” I replied, pointing toward the door. I imagine finger spelling CODE READER in ASL. But oh yeah. I don’t know American Sign Language. Communication was going to be a little challenging. I can fluently flip the bird, but that’s about it.

An interpretive dance, perhaps?

I’m in a pink tutu, pirouetting, then ending in arabesque-my long graceful arm pointing toward the door.

A pas de deux perhaps with the younger clerk? And just like that I’m imagining a flash mob of autopart clerks performing the Dance of the Code Reader right there in O’Reilly.

GET A GRIP, THERESA!

I shake my head a little to stop the cartoon autoplay in my head.

In a nanosecond, the Tchaikovsky sound track ceases and I’m back.

The old guy regards me for a moment, nods his understanding, mutters, and retrieves the code reader.

I stood in front of my car. “WHICH CAR?” he asked while heading to the wrong one.

“OVER HERE” I replied, patting the hood. He toddles over and I open the door, handing him the keys. He crouches down, placing the code reader on the seat.

Will he be able to get up again?

His head disappeared beneath the dash. “I CAN’T FIND WHERE TO PLUG THIS IN.”

Dear God, please help him not to smack his noggin on the dash and suffer a slow brain bleed that is only revealed on autopsy after he drops dead of a sudden headache in a few days.

I told the squirrels in my head to calm the fuck down.

The Q-tip pate reemerges. “AH. HERE IT IS,” he said. He plugged the thingy into the receptacle thingy. God, I wish I had one of those for my brain-instant readout on my sanity level. On second thought, maybe that’s not such a good idea.

I give him a thumbs up. I guess that doubles my sign language vocabulary.

After getting the reading, he creaked his way into an upright position.

LET’S GO READ THESE CODES, he shouted.

I nodded and gave him another thumbs up. I followed him back to the counter.

He pecked at the keyboard, imputing the codes.

Dear Patron Saint of Autos, please be merciful to me, a sinner.

The news was not good. Robot’s arms began flailing in my imagination again.

It read: NO SOUP FOR YOU! GET YOUR CAR TO JASON!

I shouted my thanks to Mr. Muppet Dude, grasped the printed prognosis and left.

I am truly puzzled. The car is still running strong. I call my hero.

Jason, my own master mechanic, told me to bring it in the next morning.

So much for a 5am departure.

The next morning, I start the car. No lights. Not a one. The car is running just fine, thank you very much.

But the sheet of paper is still here so I know that while the auto parts ballet was imagined, the code report was not.

I head across town in the growing Phoenix heat. It’s now 10am, temp is already 100 degrees and I’m at the mechanic’s garage. Jason pops the hood open and reaches for the oil cap. He removes it. And a little puff of smoke rises.

OOooooooh! Might a Genie appear? Grant me three wishes? Let’s see. A flat tummy to match my flat chest. A million dollars. And…..

“Rut roh,” Jason says. SCREEEEEECH! Seriously, Jason?

He just ruined my perfectly good fantasy.

Now what?!

There are two times you never want to hear the words “rut roh.” One is from the mouth of a surgeon. The other is from your mechanic.

He shook his head slowly.

“This is called blow back,” he says. He said some more stuff but rut-roh was reverberating in my head. A picture of a whale spewing water floated through my mind.

Does this mean I’m not leaving for my trip today? That’s all my mind was trying to grasp after the whale swam by.

After checking compression in the four cylinders, he found the problem child. A faulty ring or something in number 3.

The blur of words danced in my head. Thousands of dollars. Tear the engine apart. Should sell it.

My beloved little Vibe. The car I was planning on driving 300,000 miles. And I was delighted to have a car that actually had fewer than 100,000 miles on it. I’ve only had it about 3 months.

After a fiasco with two previous vehicles, I thought I had my zippy partner in crime for road adventures. Purchasing it felt like the first good decision I made since cancer treatment ended.

And now I’m being told it’s got an expiration date on it.

The short version. Car is still running strong but that piston issue could go south sooner than later. OR, it could go for another 100K miles.

Jason advised me a long road trip wouldn’t be such a great idea because if this thing buys the farm in the middle of nowhere, I’d really be in a pickle.

He assured me I am fine driving around town. Could even take a drive up to Prescott.

Just monitor the engine temperature, he advised.

And that, ladies and gentleman, is why I am now sitting in my tiny home today instead of being en route to my retreat.

After consulting with my mechanic son, I am feeling better about the car. I don’t need to make a hair’s-on-fire decision, but I will keep myself on a short leash.

I am feeling disappointed. This trip has been a goal for over a year. But yet there is a part of me is glad this happened before I hit the road. Breaking down in the middle of nowhere is something to be avoided at all costs. If those dash lights had not come on, I would still be unaware of the issue.

And of course, the bigger thing weighing on my mind is what to do next.

In the meanwhile, perhaps I’ll return to the parts store for some more entertainment. I hear The Dance of the Code Reader is making an encore appearance.

Wanna join me? I’ll bring the popcorn.

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