I hate car mechanics. I hate that male-bonding crap that goes on with engines. I hate whole conversations about brake-horse-power. I just don't get it. I understand how the internal combustion engine works, I know what the pieces of a car do, but I really have no desire to look under a bonnet (hood). Cars are a way of getting from A to B a bit faster than using my feet and in more comfort than on a bicycle. I am a sad enough geek to know how most things work, but when the microwave doesn't work, when my mobile phone doesn't work, when the digital tuner in my tele fails, I am not expected to stand around, beer in hand, grunting. It is common knowledge that if you want to make friends (male friends) in a new neighbourhood, grab a six-pack, step outside, open the bonnet, stare at the engine. Within seconds you will be surrounded by men who are willing to dispense their knowledge and wisdom:
Yeah, I thought I heard something funny when you arrived the other day. I'm pretty sure that it is your lunge-spracktel-over-binder. You're going to need a three-quarter spiflicator and a six-point harblesquiller to fix that mother. I remember when my DuPont '42 had the same problem. We had that baby up on the blocks longer than my wife gestated with the triplets. In the end we had to rip the whole thing out and replace it with the inter-flange-tribulator from a '29 Pushahbee.
You might gather that I have never stood around a car with the bonnet open. It just ain't my thing. Unfortunately it is Maria's thing. She loves the whole messin'-about-in-cars thing. I suppose (duh!) that it is her engineering background - I hope so, rather than it being the hanging around with blokes who tend to have more bum-cleavage than a plumber's convention.
So, the new truck (gotta lurve the new truck) has been having its problems. This is not unexpected, we knew this would happen. The reason we bought the truck was that the Jetta kept having its problems and it would cost us an arm and one of the kid's kidneys to repair it. As we are fairly fond of the kids, we decided to get something that we could happily drive around with the check engine light on, knowing that the car wouldn't throw a primadonna hissy fit (and smell of wee because the children had failing kidneys). And that is what we have been doing - driving the car around with the check engine light on, not selling our loved one's body parts.
Except it has been making one bastard of a noise. At first it was easy to ignore - this was the reason that in car stereos were invented. However, with the volume cranked to 20 (conversation impossible), the noise was drowning out Linkin Park at their most shouty. It was time to do something about it.
And so I had to face the fact that I would have to have that moment when I would be face-to-face with a mechanic. He'd look under the bonnet, wipe his hands on an oily rag, shake his head slowly from side-to-side and tut. I think they can sense my failure to be interested. When I go to see a doctor, I just want to be cured. I don't need a long story about how (if I hadn't gone to see the doctor) I would have ended up dead - I know that! That's why I went to see the doctor! Why do mechanics spend hours (and hours) telling me that if I hadn't gone to see them then (eventually) the outside of the car would explode whilst the inside would implode, killing several passer-bys and atomising the occupants. Just accept the fact that I know the car is buggered, give me a price, fix it, charge me the price you quoted, and let me go before you tell me an "interesting" story [in this case interesting means that if you listen, smile, nod enthusiastically, the price of fixing the car will be less interesting].
The good news is that Maria got to deal with the mechanic. The better news is that a price was agreed on at the beginning and (after it transpired that the replacement part actually cost the garage more than they had quoted us for the whole bill [including a couple of other things plus labour]) that was the price we paid at the end. The best news was the mechanic was wearing a t-shirt bearing the legend: No hablo Ingles.
The car was fixed, the bill was paid, and I got away without having to feign interest. All in all a good day for me. However, there is the one remaining fact that the bill came in at less than $50 dollars for the replacement part. This means that I do sort of feel obligated to mention that if you are ever in Tijuana, and your car breaks down, could you please use Tovar Auto Services on Ermita. They are very nice people, they do the job they promise to do, and they don't speak English. Thank you.
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