Car Problems, Part Three

When I last stopped complaining about my car it had broken down twice in a matter of weeks, been repaired by the world's most incompetent mechanic and subsequently had its soul drained by my room mate's car. Well, as almost anyone who's ever owned a car, especially an old one, could have predicted it wasn't over then.

Oh yeah. The face palms are back!

About a week after all that went down, I decided to drive to Raleigh so I could help two different people move all their stuff. A friend from my undergrad years was moving from her town house to an apartment on Saturday; and as a small Asian girl with a small car, there was no way she could move a queen size mattress, a sofa, etc. all by herself. And my room mate's dad was moving to Raleigh and had a moving truck full of stuff that needed hauling.

Yeah, it sounds like a great weekend right?

Well, as part of this whole deal I had to borrow another friend's truck. And when I say truck, I really mean tank. Because whatever kind of truck he has should come with a slot for a turret gunner. I'm not just joking about how unwieldly and difficult to park it was. When I got there on Friday, he had actually been involved in an accident.

What was the damage you ask? His front bumper was dented and an NCSU vanity plate had to be replaced. "So it was just a fender bender right?" you say, sure that the other car was similarly lightly bruised. Oh no. He punted that car twenty yards, bent two of its tires under the car and broke its front axle.

Forget "right of way", he had "might of way".

So on Saturday he drove my car to work and I attempted to not destroy anything as I helped my friend move. That went more or less according to plan. He had to call me because the car wouldn't start (it has terrible battery leads) and I had to pull forward, cut it, and back up like a million times to fit into non-tractor trailer sized parking spaces.

Well, Sunday afternoon as I'm preparing to leave Raleigh I say all my goodbyes and thank him again for letting me use his truck and what not. That's when I discover that I can't get the car out of the "park" gear. It started fine, but just wouldn't come out of gear.

Fan-Fucking-Tastic.

I pop the hood to see if perhaps the oil had finally run out and maybe my engine was ruined. The oil dipstick's handle breaks off in my hand. The dipstick is still in the tank. I can't check the oil.

Great. Just what I needed. (sarcasm)

Okay. Okay. Calm down, go back inside and start asking for suggestions and turning to the magic of the interwebs to solve my problem. Google, do your thing. Text another friend who knows his way around a car's insides. Shouldn't be that big of a deal. Fingers crossed.

The friend must have been blazed, because he somehow thought that my car was stuck in "a park". Like a fucking state park with one of those gates and a sign that says "Gate closes at dark" or some shit. After like three or four more texts to clear that up, he says "Press the brake pedal when you're trying to change gears."

No shit, Sherlock. I know how to change gears.

Well, after a while, he finally says "Just pull really hard on the gear shift. That might work." And unable to find any help online, I am just desperate enough to try it. Right as I'm sure that the gear shift stick is about to snap in half, the car goes into drive! Huzzah! All is right in the world again! I am free!

Talk about premature celebrations.

Now, I put the car back in a parking space and turn it off so I can say goodbye to my friends, this time for real. But wait... The key won't come out of the ignition! What the fuck?

I struggle with that for another half an hour, texting, researching, hitting things with hammers...you know, things you do to fix things. But to no avail. That key is wedged in there tighter than that dorky kid in middle school's tighty whiteys after meeting the school bully.

Why doesn't this happen more often outside of television/movies?

"Fuck it!" I declare, and drive back to Greenville anyway. "I'll deal with this retarded car at a later date. I just have to get back before work tomorrow morning, and then I'll take it to a mechanic or something."

I only have one key for that car, and it was trapped in the ignition, so I had to leave one door unlocked in order to get back into the car. I disconnect the battery so it doesn't completely die on me before I can drive it to a mechanic. I'm mostly just glad to get back to the apartment without having a break down in the middle of nowhere on the high way.

Whew! Nearly looked like a fool there.

Once I finally get it to a mechanic, I tell them that I want my oil, transmission fluid, brake fluid, and whatever other types of fluids there are to be changed out. I would also like my oil dipstick fixed and my key out of the ignition. They estimate it will be like five hundred dollars or so. I swallow back some profanity and say, "Alright. I'll leave it here over night and pick it up tomorrow."

About half an hour later, they call me to say that they need to replace the starter switch in order to fix the key problem. That part and labor would cost about $1,300. If that doesn't give you a bit of sticker shock, consider that I paid $1,800 for the whole fucking car. I didn't really have an idea what they could possibly have to replace that is worth more than all four tires, the engine, the windows, doors, seats, radio and anything else that you want to list.

THIS!!! THIS IS WHAT IT IS!!!

How in the Nine Hells is that part and the labor needed worth nearly seventy five percent of an entire car? Needless to say (but I'll say it anyway) I told them to finish changing my oil or whatever and I would pick up the car right away.

After waiting an additional forty five minutes longer than they told me it would be to finish whatever they were doing, I had to get them to jump my car in order to get out of their parking lot because they had left the battery plugged in with the key in the ignition for a few hours.

"I'm surrounded by idiots!"

I was already late for class, but had all my school stuff back at my apartment. So I trudge through rush hour traffic and finally get there. But then, literally as I pull into a parking space the car dies! And won't crank. My room mate helps me push it the last six feet into the parking space. As far as I'm concerned a viable option would be just lighting it on fire and cleansing myself of this hunk of junk vehicle.

And I will dance around the flames.