Car Trouble

Several weeks ago, I noticed that my car's air conditioner was being all Hannibal Lecterish -- one moment acting polite and crisply cool, and then next moment, eating my face. Being a person with a rather low tolerance for temperature extremes (ie, a mollycoddled pantywaist), I need my A/C to be functional. I have no desire to ever arrive at my destination with Ernest Borgnine armpit stains. I took the car to the shop.

They replaced the A/C sensor switch, but warned me that the compressor was somewhat anemic, and might not last through the summer. Therefore, when the car seemed warmer than usual on my way to the From the Mouth of Cthulhu concert on Monday night, I just assumed it was the technician's pessimistic prediction coming true. I wasn't too worried.

But it just got hotter and hotter. I finally looked at the engine temperature gage and was stunned to see that it had already gone to Red Alert! I probably should've pulled over immediately, but I was on Santa Fe during rush hour, and darn it, it just wasn't convenient. Besides, as long as the car was moving, the temp gage needle stayed below the redline. If I stopped moving, though, it went right back up. Not good.

I immediately turned off the A/C, and at each light, turned off the enginer altogether. As soon as I could get off Santa Fe, I did, pulling over on a side street and turning the vehicle off. I called Tanner's mom; she has an office downtown, and was also attending the concert. Maybe she'd drive me to the theater while my poor hot car took a break.

I ended up nursing my wounded automobile into the parking lot at her office building and left it there to cool. We attended the concert, and I hoped that the evening weather would cool off enough that I could get my car back home to Littleton.

Fortunately, I was carrying water in my car, and was able to get some more from a janitorial spigot at Val's office building. The poor radiator guzzled over a gallon of liquid, and seemed to be holding it -- I saw no obvious leaks. I decided to try to limp home, and would put the car in the shop the next morning.

Val followed me until I was reasonably certain that I was going to make it without overheating again. I ran the heater, and rolled down the windows to let as much of the engine heat escape as possible. The gage stayed steady, just a tad warm, but nowhere near the boilover point. I gave Val the A-OK sign and traveled the rest of the way without incident. I was beginning to hope that a few gallons of antifreeze might solve the entire problem.

Of course, we can also hope that being nice to terrorists will convince them to leave us alone, but it just ain't gonna happen. The diagnostics at the repair shop indicated that I need a new head gasket. (At first I thought that was the technician's way of telling me I was crazy, but then realized that a "head gasket" really is an engine component. Apparently it serves the same purpose as the skin of a hot dog -- it keeps all the hot juices inside where their energy can be harnessed, rather than leaking out and getting gnarly crud all over your pristeen buns. Something like that, anyway.)

As I understand it, a head gasket is about 50 cents worth of cardboard or rubber or something, but in order to install it, you have to take the engine out of the car, scrape the old one off the metal using a large box of special space-age titanium Q-tips, and then travel to the Amazon rain forest to harvest the milk of the rare pygmy tarantula that lives only in the very tops of the unicorn tree (which is only visible under a full moon), so you'll be able to apply the correct mystical salve to the new gasket to seal it together. I may be getting a few of the details wrong here, but the point is that the labor is very, very expensive.

Perhaps it's time to give up internal combustion, move to a hippie commune and live on wheat grass that we raise ourselves. Ride bicycles everywhere, learn to enjoy the pungent aroma of our own perspiration, and eschew unnecessary luxuries such as shoes, Michael Jordan-autographed underwear, and York Peppermint Patties. Perhaps it's time to live as our forefathers did, living in huts made of bamboo and aspen bark, drinking fermented dandelion juice, and doing away with television altogether. (Except during the Olympic swimming events, of course.)

Or not. I think when all is said and done, I'd actually prefer to have my car back. As much as it hurts to do it, I think I'll put the repairs on a credit card and be in debt for the next several years, simply for the convenience of being able to travel where I want to, listen to CDs at window-rattling volumes, and feel a refreshing blast of cool air in my face...even on the hottest days.

So, my friends, let's crank it up, shall we? We'll figure out how to pay for it later. Have a great day!

[NOTE: This essay is intended to be viewed as humorous commentary only. It is in no way meant to override stern parental admonitions to save your money and conserve your assets by avoiding needless luxuries. It does NOT imply that the author endorses accumulation of debt in order to achieve fleeting personal comfort. If your name is Tanner, you are hereby instructed to ignore any implications that conflict with what your father has told you. Always obey your father and ignore the Internet. Thank you.]