Car Problems, Part Four

As most of you know, I'm not exactly known for my healthy relationship with cars.

We've all been there, right?

But usually my problems stem from when I want the car to move (while I'm in it) but it resists my attempts to make it conform to the standards and purposes it was manufactured for. I've been putting up with this car's crap for a really long time. And thanks to my non-pyramid-scheme job, I was making enough money to think about getting a new one. But, naturally, my hand was forced by the inherent shitty nature of my car. It broke itself going through a puddle in the half mile from a restaurant to my apartment.

Seriously only a hundred feet from my apartment

And while trying to get it to the repair shop the next day, it stalled out and completely broke down at a red light. Which was super convenient and fun for not just me, but all the cars in line behind me. Thankfully, Dr. Woofers is a planner, so I had a friend driving behind me. They pulled over, got into my car and steered while I pushed the hunk of junk off to the side of the road and trying not to curse too loudly, lest some small child be scarred for life.

In lieu of my usual modus operandi of yelling "Fuck it!" and lighting it on fire, I calmly dialed the number to several tow truck companies, who all politely informed me how much time and money they were going to steal from me. I chose the least reprehensible of the several companies and soon my beloved car was being hauled off to rest in the bone-yard of old cars that was the parking lot of my apartment.

Seriously, it was like the Graveyard of the Gulf

Needless to say, I started looking for new cars pretty quickly. I didn't really have much in the way of specifics for my search. I wanted to spend a certain amount of money and get the best quality car I could for said money. I would prefer to get a fairly nice, kind of new car. Much like my often ridiculed taste in women (long hair & blue jeans), my taste in cars is fairly wide open. I'm easy to please in general, but picky in the details. Things like the way the steering wheel feels, the turning radius, acceleration, or the intuitiveness of the dash console.

After doing some semi-serious research on the interwebs, and strolling around some local car dealerships while salesmen tried to convince me that they were going to get me a good deal, I found my new car. I got a red, 2013 Hyundai Accent GLS. I got it for a pretty good price. Since I got it used, there were several thousands of dollars knocked off the price, but it was still under all the factory warranties.

There are only three downsides to the car thus far. First, it lacks cruise control. What is all that about? My 1999 hunk of junk had cruise control. Secondly, it doesn't have a sun roof. That was a feature that I've had in all three of the cars I'd driven previously. Obviously, I could always get one installed if I so desired, but I find the prospect of a DIY sun roof to be rather silly. Lastly, it is red. According to commonly passed around "wisdom" that makes my insurance higher. And subconsciously, I think it causes me to drive faster, so perhaps there's some truth to that.

When my passengers good smelling messes in their seats, I know I'm going too fast

So, after I got my new car, I basically just told my old car that it could go check it's own oil. If you know what I mean. I wound up moving apartments shortly after, and just kept my old car at my old apartment because I didn't need parking passes at the old apartment (and the parking lot was full of derelict cars anyway) and didn't have the money to tow and subsequently fix my old car.

I basically checked up on the car once or twice a month to make sure that it was still there, and relatively unharmed. And as Easter approached, I was planning on driving my old car back up to NC and then carpooling back down to LA with some friends who were coming to visit me. I had saved up enough money to get the car fixed, and was planning on getting it fixed the week before so it would have less time to screw me over and break again.

Because I'm sure it would have done it.

But then my car was gone.

I called the old land lord, he said he hadn't towed it. I called all the tow companies, they hadn't towed it. I called all the impound lots, including the police, they didn't have it. The whole process was fairly frustrating. For one, I didn't know when it had been taken within about a two week time window. Second, apparently telling someone that it was a gold, 1999 Ford Escort (sport edition) with a sunroof and North Carolina plates wasn't enough for them look in their databases and say if they did or did not have it.

Almost as frustrating as when that homeless mechanic couldn't find it parked, alone, in the only parking lot of the town's only library. Almost. At least in that instance one of us knew where the freaking car was. Here, at least there was a certain level of justifiable confusion as to the car's whereabouts.

But it seems that the car was stolen. By either a tow truck company, or a mechanic. Because that piece of shit car was not going anywhere under its own power when I left it in that parking lot. Unless...

Cue nerd joke/word play...

So when I called the police out to take my statement about the car, they of course said it would take an indeterminate amount of time for an officer to swing by and get my statement. Which of course could only be taken in person at the scene of the crime. Because there were soooo many clues to be had. But I did go there, and sat in my car for like an hour waiting for the cop to show.

Watched some kid try and get the attention of anyone in his apartment building to let him in. Threw stones, yelled, tried to jimmy the door with a stick. Got confronted by a sketchy dude who kept asking me what I was doing. And then some other dude who was going to call the cops on me because I seemed like a drug dealer. Coincidentally that's right when the cop showed up to be confused about the fact that I had a new car, but my old car had been stolen, and I would like the police department's assistance in locating it, or at least verifying my insurance claim on the missing vehicle.

Couldn't slip much past these modern day Sherlocks

So as of right now, my old car is missing, presumed dead, while Baton Rouge's finest are understandably nonchalant about trying to locate it. I've just accepted this as a fact of life. Sometimes things go wrong from time to time. And sometimes you're able to get rid of your piece of shit car without the need for a viking funeral.

You win some, you lose some.

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.

Car Problems, Part Two

After my car broke down the other week, and the terrible yet rather funny experience with the worst mechanic known to man, I was fairly certain that my car troubles were over for at least a few days. I had my car parked in front of my apartment, my room mate had just come back from his med school interviews, blaring "Where the Party At?" on his car speakers.

Happy days!

Life was good. I figured that my troubles were going to be held at bay for at least a few days. I mean, how much could go wrong with my car in the next 24 hours? I don't know why I even bother to think that anymore.

Seriously though.

I drove my car to class that night, and as I got out of class and turned my phone back on, I saw that I had a text message from my room mate saying that his car had a dead battery and that he'd appreciate my help jumping his car. I thought, "Sure, no problem."

So I got back to the apartment, parked my car and walked inside. Turns out what had happened was that since he has a keyless start, he had accidentally left it in idle after turning it on briefly to roll up his windows. No big deal. It's a pretty new car, so we figured it couldn't be that big a deal to jump it and didn't get out there right away. We ate some dinner and watched like forty-five minutes of television and then decided it was time to go outside and jump his car.

This is when things begin to go downhill.

Perhaps I should have realized that my battery might not be the strongest. For one, it's probably the same battery that came with the car when it rolled out of the factory in 1999. Also, it had been loitering in a public library parking lot for an entire week while that rocket surgeon of a repairman tried to find and then subsequently fix my car.

What I'm getting at is that my battery was dead.

My room mate decides to call University Transportation, because as part of our status as tuition payers we get some decent perks, like somebody to come jump our car on campus. And we live so close to the medical campus that there's normally no problem with a request like that. Well not this time.

Not only did the person we got on the phone somehow not know where the medical campus was, she couldn't comprehend that we live on the same street that runs right next to the regular campus and she didn't understand that there were two students, each with a dead car. She wasted nearly ten minutes of our time asking for our vehicle make, model, license plate numbers, telephone numbers, student ID numbers, mother's maiden names, etc before we finally hung up in frustration.

"I just told these two grad students to shove it"

No problem, right? We've got friends. Some of those friends have cars. Some of them are even reliable enough to help us out. So we sent out some texts desperately begging for help. But in a dignified manner.

Hey, we've got our dignity.

One of our friends decided to help us out. So he shows up and tries to jump start my room mate's car. To no avail. Now, I had been thinking about getting a new battery for my car anyway, so instead of just trying to jump my car, we drove to Walmart and bought a new battery for my car. That should help our situation out, right?

So we get back to the apartment, install my brand new battery, so fresh that you can smell the acid (not really), in my car. Since it's a brand new battery, and I was already parked next to my room mate's dead car, we decided to jump his car with my car. Seems like it would work, right?

Wrong. It didn't work. His car showed less signs of life than a career path as one of those guys who light the whale blubber oil lamps. Or perhaps an elevator operator.

This guy knows what I'm talking about.

Since that didn't work, my room mate managed to convince our friend and me to try something that he called the "double jump". For anyone who might not realize what the double part of that phrase refers to, it means that we were going to hook up two cars to the dead car. Sounds like nothing could go wrong, right?

Surprisingly, nothing actually goes wrong with that part of the plan. What does go wrong is that when we attempt to position our cars so that both batteries were in range of the jumper cables, my car doesn't start. Not like, has problems starting. Like, won't even beep when you put the key in the ignition.

Seriously, how often does this shit happen?

Somehow my room mate's car managed to suck the very life force out of a brand fucking new battery. How is that even possible? Like seriously, how can an entirely new battery fail to produce enough power to jump another battery? It's not like we were trying to start an F-17 with a golf cart. It was car to car.

My room mate turns to our friend and says, "Try to jump my car with yours now." My friend and I both turn to each other and say something along the lines of "Hold up! We don't need to have three cars all with dead batteries."

Bump that noise.

Luckily though, we were able to line up a second friend with a car who would be willing to come try and jump our cars if my room mate's car managed to drain the soul out of our friend's car as well. So we used the friend's car to jump my car, and then lined up for the double jump. Both of our cars hooked up to my room mate's car, attempting to breath some life back into the black hole that is my room mate's car.

Somehow, his car managed to take the combined power of two batteries, two fucking batteries, being run pretty hard, without getting more juice than was needed to roll his windows up or down. This isn't just one battery that failed. His car was showing less life than... well... you get the point.

It's probably just taking a nap.

So the next day, he calls AAA to get a truck out to our apartment and jump his car. The truck shows up with one of those handy dandy portable jumper batteries. Big surprise, that doesn't work on his vampire of a car. This is like the fifth combined battery that has failed to power his car and I'm starting to think that maybe we should just start sacrificing virgins or something.

You didn't think I meant hot girls, did you?

So the mechanic asks to borrow my jumper cables, and hooks my room mate's car up to his tow truck. The truck has two batteries in it, each of which is more powerful than a regular car battery. At long last, my room mate's car rises from the dead with a roar. He let it run for a good fifteen or so minutes, and I swear I heard it revving it's own engine a few times.

That car scares me now.

Car Problems

Some of you might have read an earlier post about bicycles, and the hassles that accompany them. This one is about cars, because apparently bad luck is not limited to two wheeled vehicles. As somebody who appreciates the humor in life, the following post documents the unabated week or two of car problems that recently plagued me and my room mate.

First off, some background information about the cars involved. The car that I own is a 1999 Ford Escort. It's gold, has four wheels, two doors, a sunroof, you know... car things. Anyway, about a month ago my car broke down while I was out of town. Although I'm not too mechanically inclined when it comes to cars, I did know that it wasn't the battery, the gas, oil, spark plugs, radiator, or what not.

Should have checked the flux capacitor, Doc.

Anyway, it turns out that the problem with my car had something to do with a primer belt, or a timer belt, or some sort of belt. It was rather inconvenient to be stranded an hour away from both my house and my apartment. It was fixed, and all was right with the world again. Happy days!

Little did I know, this was just a taste of the car troubles yet to come.

Cue ominous music.

A few weeks later, a veritable monsoon hit the eastern part of the state. Roads were closed, homes flooded, even some schools were shut down because of the excessive amounts of rain pouring down. Driving through that did not agree with my car in the least. After driving through a puddle the size of a small pond, suddenly my car didn't want to turn.

Lucky for that pedestrian, my brakes still worked.

So I manage to pull my car into the parking lot of the local public library where it would be slightly less likely to be pillaged for spare parts or towed than if it was simply left on the street somewhere. I took a look at it, and the engine belt was draped over my wheel axle. Not a good look for my car.

I had a similar experience once with a makeover attempt.

I went to get some estimates from local repair shops, all of whom were rather unhelpful and vague when it came to giving me a quote. I brought in photos of the problem, with a detailed description, and all they could do was say "somewhere between 100 and 300 dollars". Not cool. As a poor college student, that kind of bank is not really what I'm all about.

So, that weekend, while attempting to figure out what to do about my down and out car, a friend mentioned that he knows a mechanic who will come to where your car is (saving on towing) and fixes things for less than most repair shops charge. Sounds like a win right?

Wrong... So very wrong.

The friend who recommended this "Mobile Mechanic" happens to be a little flaky at times. We attribute part of this to his status as a home schooled kid. Perhaps I should have realized that this might not work out as smoothly as anticipated.

I call the guy, tell him what type of car I drive, what's wrong with it, and where it's parked. I also gave him my cell and work phone numbers in case he needs to get up with me about the car. I even tell him where I'm leaving the spare key for him. Seems like all you should need, right?

Wrong! Again!

He can't find the car. It's not like I parked in a super center parking lot or anything, with multiple levels or anything. I parked in the only fucking parking lot next to the only fucking library downtown. I was the only gold, two door, sun roof-having Ford Escort out of the thirty cars in the entire parking lot. This should have been easier than finding Waldo in Antarctica.

Not for this guy.

There comes a time when you have to realize that thinks aren't going smoothly, you need to cut your losses and move on. However, I am notoriously both stubborn and lazy. I wanted my car fixed, and fixed the way I started.

After nearly a week of having my car sit in the library parking lot, I got so paranoid that I started seeing tow trucks everywhere. Like, more than I've ever seen in my life outside of a 50 car pileup on the freeway.

I also began to hear unexplained fake country accents.

Luckily for me, the library apparently doesn't care if a car stays parked in their lot, without moving, at all. My car sat in that parking lot at all times. It was there at 11:30 at night, it was there at 5:45 in the morning, and it was there at 1:30 in the afternoon. All week.

The only good part of this story is that the fly by night mechanic only charged me ninety dollars for fixing my car. That was a good deal. And for that, I will not attempt to blacklist that terrible mechanic. It might have taken him five phone calls, three visits to the library parking lot, some research and a little bit of actual work, but he got it done.

Great job guy!