This afternoon, I found a new way to make myself angry. And really annoyed.
Work on my car.
It's quite effective.
I became so frustrated that I'm sure a few of my veins ruptured a little when I curled my fingers inside my palms and pressed so hard that all my knuckles popped out.
My knowledge of mechanics isn't exactly extensive. I know how to change my headlight lamps. I've gotten really good at replacing those rubber-strip things on the windshield wipers. Not to mention my exceptional skills in the oil department: I know
exactly where the dipstick is
and how to read it.
I never really messed with all those big parts under the hood. Mostly because they get really hot and burn my hand, but also because they're kind of greasy and a little confusing.
But today was different. After months of ducking under the steering wheel while my engine spouted out horrible sounds that echoed through parking garages like a shrieking banshee through a megaphone, I decided it was time to do something. Not to mention, if one more grandma flipped me off in traffic, things would have gotten ugly.
You see, it all started a few months ago when I first noticed the strange behaviors of my sweet little hatchback. I drove it over to the local franchise joint to have them give it a check-up.
While I was there, I kept all facial expressions as nonchalant as possible, and I blurted out as many names of the car parts I knew so that I would appear to be unscamable (pronounced un-SCAM-able: one who is impervious to the trickery of big, fat jerks).
I told the guy behind the counter that I was sure there was a leak in the evaporator hose and that there might also be something wrong with the fuel injectifiers.
He grinned, took my key and slid it into the big clear plastic envelope where they kept all the files for all the sick cars. I'm pretty sure I saw him wring his hands and whisper "excellent" to himself when he turned. He told me to sit down and then walked into the back room with one of his buddies.
His buddy was covered in car blood. Black stuff in his nostrils, the lines on his neck and all over his hands. He looked like an Orbit gum commercial when he smiled. The operating room must have been busy that day.
They were in the back room for a long time. There were only two other doors in the building - the men's room and the ladies room - and I knew their room was equally small.
It was definitely too small for them to have put my car in it to work in privacy for the purpose of extreme concentration, which is what I would have preferred they do. And there certainly were not any x-ray machines hidden back there with which they could examine the innards of my vehicle hands-free.
Also, I could see my car in the parking lot, still in the same spot I parked it when I arrived.
This is when I became convinced that these mechanics have a secret passageway to the underworld. They use it to find the weaknesses of their customers. To taunt them by finding out how much they can afford and charging one dollar less so they're more likely to consent. And to laugh at them for saying things like "injectifiers."
They made me wait an hour.
And another hour.
Even more hours.
And then I paid them $268 and my car was fixed.
Until I drove it.
That is why today, I decided to forgo the wicked deceptions of the inept mechanics at the little mechanic shop in my neighborhood. Instead, I vowed to self educate and weaken the powers of the tiny backroom filled with cars' blood.
Plus, holding the tools felt a little awesome.
I had a new sense of self worth as I stooped under the hood, sweating in the mid-day heat. I found the bolt I needed to loosen and tried a socket.
Fail.
I tried another.
Too big.
Another.
Fail again.
Another.
Nope, too small.
"Why do you hate me, Car?!" I cried, before texting a friend who would know exactly what I was doing wrong.
He told me I needed a 10mm wrench.
METRIC?
WTF CAR!
First I informed my car that it was stupid for having metric things in it, because in the United States we have our own, markedly better system and it should at least make the effort to adapt to the culture.
After I purchased a new wrench and the engine had adequately singed all the skin along the side of my palm, I was successful in removing one ignition coil.
I could feel the excitement brewing. "How awesome is it going to be when this thing is fixed and I did it all by myself?"
Totally, I said to me.
The second ignition coil was in place and I was ready to start the car and regain my self worth. But alas, the engine still lurched, and the ugly intermittent growl continued as it sputtered and revved and sputtered and revved. I cried into my blackened hands. I stared down at the thing in anger and disbelief.
And then, I saw it. Opening its ugly mouth and laughing at me with every sad attempt at intake. There was a giant gaping hole in the air hose.
I did what any savvy MacGyver fan would do and grabbed the duct tape. It worked. The engine purred.
How could anyone want to kill this man?
And then I hit it really hard with my fist and told it I hated it for being so difficult.
But in the end, I fixed it, $400 and a small sliver of duct tape later.
I win shady franchise underworld mechanics. I win.
