No Need for a Curly

Yesterday, I spent eight hours at my job, and two hours at my mechanic's job.

I joked with my wife, after I'd finally arrived home, that "my day was great until I left work." And, for someone who works at an inpatient psychiatric hospital, that's saying something.

Actually, spending two hours with your sixty-eight-year old Israeli mechanic and his indeterminately-aged though much younger Chinese assistant isn't a half bad way to decompress after spending a full working day among 70 psych patients and some similarly-afflicted staff members. At least, at the garage, you've got the bay doors open and the sunlight is streaming in, and you're surrounded by cars, in various states of disrepair. Cars and mechanics-- simpler both than your average psych patient.

Soly and Jack have been working together since "1996 or '97, I can't remember," said Jack when I asked him yesterday. Soly, the sunburnt sabra, screams and curses. Jack, the obedient Chinese assistant, dutifully and quietly takes abuse. Soly is very much like hot-tempered Moe, and Jack is definitely Larry-- hapless, in the way, liable to get his hair pulled and his face smacked.

The only thing missing in that garage is a Curly, but I don't see any twinkle-toed, obese, balding men with high-pitched voices and a propensity for playing the spoons entering the picture anytime soon. Though I don't think it would surprise me if one did.

I went to see Jack and Soly yesterday because, on Tuesday, they changed my tires and noticed that I needed new front brakes and rotors.

"Why?" I asked.

"WHY?!" Soly screamed into the phone, "because the FAH-KEENG ESS-HOLE who owned your car before you put brakes on WITHOUT CHANGING THE ROTORS! Volvo, BMW, and Mercedes, if you change the brakes, you HAVE TO CHANGE THE ROTORS!"

And now I know that. And so do you. The person who owned my car before me obviously didn't know that, and now she was being maligned by some short, angry Israeli in a dirty work shirt and shorts that she'd never met.

This is what life is.

And so, yesterday, I went to Soly and Jack's to have my brakes (AND ROTORS) put on. But they didn't fit.

So they ordered another set to be delivered to the shop. They arrived forty-five minutes later, during which time I watched Soly fight with two customers and turn someone away who wanted to buy scrap metal from him for $0.15 a pound.

"What am I, a fah-keeng retarded?" he asked me, rhetorically, I presumed.

The second set of rotors didn't fit either.

"Oh my God, wat dee fak! JACK! Call Jeff and tell him to get me rotors here now. GODDAMNIT!"

I stared at my car, up on the lift, with the two front tires off. I wasn't going anywhere fast, so I sat down on a rickety wooden chair and enjoyed the atmosphere and the conversation. Mrs. Apron had been there earlier that morning to get her oil changed and her car inspected and to get new wiper blades on.

"So," Jack said to me as he was yanking a 16-inch tire off the rim of a 2009 Ford Econoline van that had just failed its emissions inspection, "you gonna have twins-- you the big daddy. No more money."

"That's right, Jack," I said, smiling, "so enjoy swiping my debit card today-- if you guys ever get the right fucking rotors here."

He laughed.

Other people might have been indignant about spending two hours in a garage, especially after they'd just worked a full day, but I wasn't. Because we could talk, about having twins, about mortgage rates, about what it's going to be like for my father if my wife and I have at least one boy.

"Let me tell you," Soly said, "for Iraqi Jews, if you have a son-- forget about it. That is eeet! He going to have your father around his finger, for good."

"I sure didn't have him wrapped around my finger-- my sister was always the favorite."

"But you are good," Jack said, furrowing his brow, "you always do the right thing, you grown up."

"Jack, shut up!" Soly yelled, "dat's not what eet is about! The sister is like the father, so he look like he like her more. But he is good. You are good. I didn't go to school for a fucking psychology, I can talk to you for five minutes and I know that you are good. And your father would facken' kill himself to make you happy."

It's funny, discussing the dynamics of your family with your car mechanics, but we've known Soly and Jack fifteen (maybe fourteen) years. I took my first car for its first oil change there. The barber who gave me my first haircut. The doctor who gave me my first shot. These connections mean something to me, and I cannot let them go.

And, even after two hours and three sets of rotors, I don't much want to.

My Little Swedish Borderline

Impulsive.

Attention-seeking.

Unpredictable.

Erratic.

Sometimes unable to function in society.

No, I'm not describing both of the women who played with my penis in college, I'm talking about my car.

It's an automotive borderline.

Fortunately, it hasn't resorted to self-injurious behavior or a suicide attempt, though that reminds me of the scene in "The Love Bug", where Jim brings home the Lambo and Herbie tries to kill himself by throwing himself off the Golden Gate Bridge. When you think of live-action Disney films featuring scenes of attempted suicide, you often forget to include "The Love Bug," but there it is. The film was actually going to be called, "Herbie: the Car that Cannot Contract for Safety" but the test-audience declared the title a bit too cumbersome.

Anyway, my 2002 Volvo S40 is not attempting suicide, at least, I don't think it is, but it is definitely behaving in an attention-seeking way.

In the past three weeks, it has been to my mechanic twice, and to Volvo service once, and, if symptoms persist, another trip back to Volvs Central will be on the horizon, and this time, instead of an observation bed, it will be an inpatient commitment for up to three days.

The behavior the car is exhibiting is as intermittent as it is troubling. When left overnight, the first start of the morning seems to take forever. The engine hesitates and complains and resists turning over for sometimes as long as a minute until it finally gives in and there is ignition and the obligatory Swedish purring. My mechanic changed the battery, even though the old one was holding a sufficient charge. The next morning, it happened again. Back to the mechanic, who, frustrated that the battery change didn't work, yelled at me and told me not to bring it back, "UNTIL YOU HAVE A REAL FUCKING PROBLEM!"

But... I wasn't inventing this issue to get attention. I'M not the borderline-- it's the car!

Last Sunday, while pulling into a parking space, the car sputtered and stalled.

"Oh, fuck you," I said, "don't make me go all Basil Fawlty on your ass."

(If you don't get that reference, you need to watch the "Gourmet Night" episode of "Fawlty Towers." Preferably, with me.)

The car started right back up again. Typical borderline bullshit.

When I brought the car to Volvo service on Friday after work, they were kind enough to give me a loaner so that I could get to work on Saturday morning.

"We've got a loaner, if you're not picky," they said.

"Not picky?" I asked, "what are you giving me? A 1976 Dodge Coronet?"

(Part of me hoped that's what they were giving me.)

No, though. Turned out those of us who are "not picky" get a 2010 Volvo S80, the flagship, top-of-the-line sedan that retailed new in 2010 for around $50,950.

When I returned the S80 yesterday (they practically had to break my wrist to get the key fob back) they told me they were "unable to replicate and diagnose the issue" with my car.

So, I left with my car, having spent no money, receiving a coupon for a free car wash, having no answers-- nothing but the opportunity to commute for 24 hours in a car that cost just a few ass-hairs less than the down-payment on our house. One might say that I cooked this whole hesitant starting business up so that I could, if just for a moment, experience what it feels like to drive a large, modern, super-luxurious sedan, sitting atop at least ten slaughtered, supple cows to be king for a day. But I'm just not like that-- I swear. Of course, that's probably what they all say. The goateed customer service rep at Volvo Service shook his head at me and said, apologetically,

"No fault-code came back in the computer when we hooked up the car."

"Did you try Borderline Automotive Disorder?" I asked, receiving a blank stare.

Apparently, that's not one of the fault codes. But it should be.

Clearly, In Focus

Years ago, (and I love that I can say that now), I used to own a Ford Focus. If you looked up Ford Focus in the dictionary, it would probably say something like:

Ford Focus (Foh,kiss), n, Vehicle. An impersonal, utilitarian cubicle-on-wheels designed to function economically, boringly, with uncomfortable seats with miniscule perforations into which your life essence effortlessly seeps whilst driving.

When you pulled the door handle to access my old Focus, it felt and sounded as if you were opening up a storage container from Staples. Two years ago, we got rid of it in exchange for my wife's beautiful, orange, awesomeballs Honda Fit. I got to drive her 2001 PT Cruiser which, one could argue, was a half-step up from my Focus. Her Cruiser had leather seats. My Focus had the leg up in the never-needed-a-repair department. Conversely, the Cruiser was in the shop around twice a month.

Last year, in April, I presented my fiscally-conservative wife with a list of all the repairs the PT Cruiser had required in its recent history, and the total was significantly alarming. Thus, my 2002 Volvo S-40 entered the scene, and the PT Cruiser exited stage right.

And then, the bitch with no insurance, no driver's license, and no bra hit me on my way home from work last month.

Fortunately, she was behind the wheel of an Enterprise Rent-a-Car, and so they are footing the bill to get my car repaired. While my car is in the shop, I am driving a, hold for laughter, Enterprise Rent-a-Car.

Not only is it an Enterprise Rent-a-Car, it's a Ford Focus.

Reunited, at long last.

When I walked out onto the lot with the Enterprise Rent-a-Toad, I could scarcely contain my unenthusiasm for my new ride, pro-tempore. Here it is, in all its gutless glory:


Now, it may look white, or off-white, or beige, or cream in the photo, but I can assure you that this car is, in fact, green. Not only is it green, it is a particularly unfortunate shade of green that I have affectionally dubbed "Meconium."

For the uninitiated and/or unaware, meconium is described lovingly by Wikipedia as, "the earliest stools of an infant." I need say no more.

My head bowed slightly in despair at the thought of tooling around in a vehicle whose color resembles baby poop at worst, and, at best, the early-morning phlegm produced by life-long cigar smokers, but I took heart, reminding myself that I was temporarily behind the wheel of a car that was eight years newer than my current car, and five years newer than my former Focus. I won't pretend that I didn't notice some conspicuous improvements.

For starters, there are rear headrests! Sure, safety-conscious companies like Volvo have been putting rear headrests in cars to prevent whiplash in rear-seat passengers since the early 1980s, but Ford is finally catching up. My 2005 Ford Focus had no rear headrests, and I can remember feeling bad about that whenever I happened to have rear-seat passengers which, admittedly, wasn't often. Why should your neck snap like a chicken's just because you happen to be sitting bitch?

The interior of this car is, I guess, more upscale than mine was. I can recall my old dashboard vividly, and not because it itself was memorable in any way other than for being extraordinarily boring. Gauges were mindlessly plopped here or there with no forethought at all, and the radio was, um, there. At the very least, this Focus's interior components are a little more cohesive. The ass part of the seat is overstuffed and you feel as though you might topple over at any moment. It feels like you're sitting on a large bag of muffins.

One thing is for sure, though-- Ford has gone to great lengths to get you to remember that you're driving a Focus. How do they do that? By putting the car's goddamned name all over the fucking place. For realsies, it's...


On the passenger-side airbag cover!

It's...


On the tachometer!

And, just in case you have some major fucking amnesia, it's...


On a digital readout display that appears, yes, every time you start the car.

I guess Ford's thought process was something like, "With a car this anonymous and boring, we've got to constantly remind the driver that this car is called the Ford Focus." My thing is-- with a car this anonymous and boring, how could it be anything but a Ford Focus? It's not like you're going to mistake it for a Ford Testarossa. Trust me. You'll remember.

I was very amused also, when I started the car, to see the following message appear at the bottom of the speedometer:


Now that, I thought, was truly awesome. In the same spirit that we don't need to be reminded that this car is a Ford Focurse, we similarly don't need to be reminded that it's a rental toy and that Big Brother is watching us at every turn. I realize that there are plenty of people out there who would take great delight in beating the everloving fuck out of this car if they had it for a week, but I'm personally embarrassed to even set foot in it, let alone thrash it around on back roads or flog it to death on the interstate. It reminds me of a time in my life where I made $11.33 an hour, and I don't need to be reminded of that.

Just like I don't need to be reminded that it's definitely a Focus.

Chick Magnet

I don't know what it is-- maybe it's the knobby knees or the jumped up teeth, or perhaps it's the way my narrow ass looks in corduroys, but, whatever it is, hot chicks just throw themselves at me.

Well, they crash into me.

Rather, they crash into my car.


In short, my nine-year-old entry-level Volvo sedan is a chick magnet.

Yesterday, I had the distinct misfortune to be working the 7a-3p shift at work. It was for the best, really, as the weather was awful. I left work full of optimism and enthusiasm for the evening I was going to spend with my buddy. We had big plans. I was going to drive her to a small, indie fabric store 70 miles away so she could purchase... um.... robot fabric. To make a dress.

We're nucking futs. And a little bit in love.

Of course, before this insanity could begin, I had to make it home. Usually, this is not such a complicated task. However, I knew my ride home was going to take longer than usual when I found myself behind a newish white Toyota Corolla being piloted by someone who was, shall we say, less-than-attentive? The driver of the Corolla was driving approximately 18-miles-per-hour in a 25 zone, and then maybe kicked it up to just above 25 when the speed limit changed on another road to 35. That was annoying. Then, it got alarming as she continually drifted left, driving on top of the double yellow line, and twice crossing it with the left half of her car.

Now, being a do-gooder (read: narc) at heart, after about two or so miles of this happy horseshit, I made up my mind to call the police on her. Then, she put on her left turn signal and drifted her way into the left lane.

"Good," I thought, "she's turning. Fuck her, I just want to go home," I thought, slipping the phone back into my pocket. I stayed in my lane on the right and went straight, happy to be passing her and letting her fuck up someone else's day.

Silly me.

Without warning nor rhyme nor reason, she quickly veered right and slammed into the driver's side rear passenger door of my car.

Owies.


I let some choice words fly. Then I pulled over, put on my hazard lights, and called the police-- something that, clearly, I should have done earlier. Of course, had I done that, I most likely would have missed out on the opportunity to lay my eyes on a pair of truly outstanding breasts.

See, the operator of the Corolla came bounding out of her car. She had dyed black hair, too much make up, and not enough clothing. Her jeans appeared to have been painted on, and her top was, I believe, made out of paiper mâché. She was in her late thirties, maybe 38, which was probably her bust measurement, if you put DD after it. I opened my passenger side window when she approached and bent over to stick her head into my car. She had evidently forgotten her brain and her bra before she set out on her little drive.

"Oh my God, are you okay? I'm so! sorry! I just didn't see you!"

I was very angry, and admittedly a bit aroused.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I snapped, "but I don't know what the hell you were doing there for, like, two miles. You were really driving like an idiot,"

"Oh! I was just trying to get onto the highway!"

They jiggled because she was all upset and shit. It was kind of funny.

"Yeah, well, I was just about to call the police on you before you hit me, and they're on their way now. And I don't really have anything else to say to you, so I think you'd better just get back in your car and wait."

"The police are coming?" she cried.

"Yes. Goodbye," I said, rolling up my window as she removed her head.

Damn, I thought as I sat waiting for the first responding radio car, this cop had better be gay or a chick, because if some young horndog gets a look at those things, he's going to find me at fault and leave this accident scene with her phone number.

Fortunately, two officers responded and, after the information that both of us gave, I was released and she was not only found at-fault, but was "further investigated to determine her safety to be operating a motor vehicle."

Boo. Yah.

The only other time I was involved in a traffic collision was two years ago. I was turning out of a Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru when I was rammed by a fuck-me-red Nissan 350Z. It was also pouring rain then, just like it was yesterday. And, just like yesterday, the driver of the other vehicle was, um....

Tasty?

A twenty-ish, long-haired, blonde, leggy, Russian professional aesthetician and masseuse on her way to, um...

Work?

And, back then, I wasn't even driving the sex-symbol, femme-fatale-attracting Volvo. I was tooling around in my wife's 2001 Chrysler PT Cruiser.

Which, of course, had "chick magnet" written all the fuck over it.

My Volvo Problem

I have a Volvo.

And I have a Volvo problem.

Want to hear my Volvo problem?

I'm embarrassed by my Volvo.

This little problem of mine is especially annoying because my Volvo replaces my previous car, a PT Cruiser, which was also embarrassing, but for very different reasons.

The PT Cruiser was embarrassing because, well, it was a PT Cruiser. I don't need to say anything more about that, do I?

I didn't realize that the Volvo would embarrass me when I signed all of the contracts and papers and checks necessary to acquire said vehicle but, now that I have owned it for nearly a month, I now understand and am slowly accepting that I am now embarrassed by my own car.

Why?

It's too good for me.

Call this low self-esteem-- maybe that's what it is-- but I do not feel worthy of this particular vehicle. I feel ashamed when I drive it through gritty neighborhoods. When people ask me "Oh, you got a car? What is it?" I immediately start to feel warm and prickly underneath my shirt. I furrow my brow before answering, wet my lips and reply in any of the following ways,

"Oh, it's an old Volvo."

"A used Volvo."

"A 2002 Volvo."

"A small Volvo."

"It's just an old Volvo, an S-40-- you know that's the smallest one they made that year."

"An eight-year-old Volvo."

I hate apologizing for my car, but I do it, and I know that I'm doing it, but I can't stop myself.

Why?

* It has supple leather seats that I wouldn't particularly mind dying in.

* It has heated seats, and I've totally gotten over the I-just-pee-peed-in-my-pants feeling.

* It has faux wood all over the place.

* It has airbags all over the place.

* It has Dynamic Stability Control.

* It's a Volvo.

I'm proud of all of these things, and, yet, I'm also concurrently embarrassed by them. And very much so.

I guess I apologize for the car, or diminish it because I am afraid of being judged. When I told my boss what I got her response was, "Oh! Can you really afford that?" I was immediately ashamed and embarrassed, and I also immediately went online and checked my checking account balance. Still okay. But what she said had a deep impact on me, especially since she is the reason why I make practically nothing.

Could I really afford it?

It was $8,900. I traded in the Cruiser and they mercifully gave me $3,500 for it. $5,400 for a used car isn't really all that much money. Is it? So I bought it outright-- no payments, no nothing. Is what I did okay?

I keep questioning myself. And, everytime I see someone who knows that I work for a small, shitty non-profit and they ask me about what kind of car I drive, I want to fall on the ground and die at their feet rather than pronounce those two dreaded syllables....

Vol

vo.

Oh, God-- just don't make me say it.

I love the car. I really do. I love how precisely it handles, unlike the Cruiser, which was like trying to steer a Hippo on opium across a skating rink, I love the comfortable, supportive, lusciously leathery seats, I love the pick-up of the 1.9 liter turbo, I love the increased fuel economy. I think I love everything about it except for the fact that it's a Volvo. It's just too refined, too beautiful, too uptown.

If I had a homely, fat-chick friend, this is probably exactly how she would feel if we went clubbing together. Poor Gretchen.