Through the cold of the Saturday afternoon, and following the “drama” of a near run-in with Jen, I walked down to the Goodyear to check up on my car. I had imagines, maybe blindly, that maybe, just maybe they had looked at my car.
No such chance.
When I brought it in around 1:30pm I told them, “I think the rotors need replaced. I think the brakes do as well.” The guy, probably in his late fifties/early sixties, asked me for my keys, said the car should be looked at by 5, and I waved off and went down to the coffeeshop.
The time I returned was 3:30pm. Nothing. Not even moved. I had my book with me and delved a little more into that while an HDTV fixed to the wall broadcasted the UofL game. I continued thumbing through the book looking for the meaning of my life “self-help style.”
Sometime after 4 a guy sat next to me and we started talking. He’s easily in his sixties however he has that “conservative” veneer – well-groomed, laid-back manner, the guy not hurting for money. His white hair was slicked-back and teeth were perfect. He relayed the fact that he was there because his van was in the shop and needed to be looked at. He drives instead of flies because he sells medical equipment. I talk about flight a little bit and bring up Unclaimed Baggage –a store in Alabama that sells items reclaimed from lost baggage. The conversation then moves to the Internet and Facebook. “I don’t have a Facebook page. I don’t need one…” he says and murmurs something about customers hunting him down or something. A 30-something young, black woman sits the right of him against the wall and concedes the fact that yes, she’s a Facebooker.
4:30pm. Still nothing. The traveling salesman is summoned and his vehicle is ready. He waves off and I sit and talk with the black girl for a few minutes. She’s a military brat and since her mom is still in the military she basically moves around to the period of every 4 years. She’s moved from Atlanta to Columbus (OH) and recently to KY but is preparing to move back to Atlanta. “I have family down there.” When asked more about moving she relayed that she likes having her kids get an idea of other cultures.
“Sir, can you come with me?”
The guy who took my ticket, who was having my car looked at, came over to me and I stood up. I followed him to the side garage and to my vehicle which happened to be the last in line. The undercarriage was jacked-up to 6 feet. We ducked under it so he could show me what was going on.
“Your brakes and rotors are fine. The real problem here is that you have an oil leak that goes from here (points to engine) to here (points to somewhere in the middle of the car).” His fingers pluck the “Texas tea” muck from the beam that goes down the center of the car. He shows me the freeze plug and that it’s about dead. And I’m leaking transmission fluid and coolant.
“Basically,” I said, “it’s somewhere between ‘life support’ and getting a priest.”
“Yeah,” he relays. “It’s dependent upon how much you wanna spend on it.”
He gets me to schedule a “de-greasing” whereby they clean the undercarriage and find out what’s going on. The mechanic who looked over my car tells me that he had to put in 3.5 quarts of oil. I thank them and walk outside where my car is already parked in front of the doorway. I get in and head home.
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