I am sitting in a car dealership while my car is being serviced and while they decide how much more they can find to charge me for before they reach my flash point. I don’t know what it is about car dealer service departments, but they never earn my trust, even if the particular service agent I usually deal with has earned mine – in the sense that I believe he charges me less for unnecessary add-ons than any of the other so-called service agents would. For so-called ‘service agents are really misnamed salesmen who are well-armed and advantaged by their certain knowledge of my absolute ignorance of things mechanical. When I walk into the service department, I usually have one hand clenched solidly and protectively over my wallet, not that the precaution ever does me much good; when I walk into the service department, all that the service agents see is a fully plucked, fully dressed and well-stuffed turkey awaiting only a good baking to be consumable.
I have to pause a moment here and say that I am a man of no mechanical aptitude whatsoever. That is not to say that I don’t like mechanical things, for I do. I have a male’s love of fine mechanics and magical electronic devices. I just don’t know a damned thing about they work, settling, instead, for appreciating and enjoying what they do. I don’t understand the why or the wherefore of the individual parts in their uniquity; I only understand the value and service of the totality of which they are but a component.
I remember having dreams as a child about taking things apart, inherently understanding how they worked, and astounding adults by my ability to put them back together in a more efficient way than the manner in which they existed prior to the time I found them. In actuality, when I did take things apart I was never smart enough to think about re-assembly during the destruction stage, so destruction was all I wrought. So while I did astound my adults, I usually did so in a way I came to instantly regret.
But this is a piece about mechanical ability – or the lack thereof – and not about completely undeserved parental cruelty to innocent, angelic children.
This week has been one of those weeks that periodically occurs here on the Farm. You know the kind of week I mean, of that I’m certain: the kind where everything that can go wrong to things mechanical or electronic does go wrong. It started last Saturday when we left the house early with Peter and Amanda to celebrate my birthday with a fine meal at an excellent restaurant. We had gone about a mile when the red warning light for low tire pressure lit up my car’s dashboard – the kind of red low tire pressure warning light which tells you one of five tires (including the spare) has low tire pressure, but fails to specify which one.
Did I mention it was raining as we set out for the restaurant? Of course, you knew that already, as well as you also know that in this enlightened day and age of self-service gas stations, all of the air pumps are located by themselves, as far away from actual cover as the owners, in their wicked ways, think they can get away with while still being able to charge for what used to be free.
Oh, and when they do charge you, they always ask for specific coinage that you don’t currently possess, causing long walks to and from the air pump to the enclosed building where the correct coinage might, or might not, be available.
So being smart in the ways that only the mechanically challenged can be, I announced to the assembled family that we were returning home to get Helen’s car as I was not, while it was raining, going to (a) try to determine which tire was causing the warning light to glow, or (b) actually change a tire if one went flat during our journey. So return home we did, and I am happy to report that we eventually had a fine meal without further interruption or, for that matter, further thought about the red warning light aglow on my dashboard.
Sunday passed in the bliss of a day of rest, but Monday morning reinserted visions of the red low tire pressure warning light into my consciousness. When I went to my car to see if it had magically reset itself and was no longer playing a practical joke upon me, I found it hadn’t. So it was off to the gas station with my tire pressure gauge to find the offending tire. Did I mention that it was not raining on Monday and that I was feeling pretty smart at this juncture? No, I guess I didn’t. In any event, it wasn’t and, when I got to the gas station, I found the offending tire on the first try, and filled it. Then, having undergone the tortuous body winding required by the Japanese (wait, there’s a reason for this descriptor!) manufacturer of my car in order to banish the red low tire pressure warning light to warning light heaven, I was rewarded with a dashboard cleansed of red warning lights of any nature and drove happily home.
Monday was the first of three consecutive days of promised sunshine, a rare enough occurrence in Humptulips County this time of year. Since our lower pasture has gotten randy with springtime lust, it requires a good taming. And since it had been raining steadily for a week and the weather forecasters were pretty certain that we would have at least the three sunshine filled days, I decided that Wednesday was the day to attack the pasture with our heavy tractor and my new (just last year) industrial mower deck. At the appointed hour of high noon on Wednesday (to let the morning’s dew evaporate), I walked resolutely to the barn, opened all of the appropriate gates between the barn and lower pasture through which I and the tractor must pass to commence our chore, raised the heavy overhead barn door behind which the tractor resides, and settled into the tractor seat to start it. And, of course, you know the rest.
It didn’t!
But it did turn over. The tractor is diesel fueled and has what is delightfully known as a glow plug – and it wasn’t glowing. I tried several times to start the infernal thing, and, when it failed to cooperate, I gave up and trudged back to the house to get our hand-held battery assist device. I found the hand-held battery assist device in one go (this being a minor miracle in and of itself), and carried it back to the barn. Thereupon, I managed to raise the tractor’s hood, clear away the mechanical things above the battery (a strange design indeed, when the horn has to be unstrapped and moved so the battery can be revealed, but this – and the unique position of my car’s reset button for the red low tire pressure warning light (there, I told you there was a reason) – probably has something to do with Shintoism that I am wholly unable to comprehend, not being an adherent), and connected the right lead to the right post and the correct ground. And then, nothing.
When I finally got smart enough to check the status of the hand-held battery assist device, I found it held no charge. None whatsoever. So I began to search for an available electrical plug, only to realize that all of those in the barn were placed higher than the length of the hand-held battery assist device’s power cord would reach. Having finally found an old rusted horse trough upended in the farthest corner of the barn from the tractor’s appointed stall, I upended it underneath a near-by electrical plug, placed the hand-held battery assist device upon its top, plugged it in, and, realizing I had some hours to wait before it would be operational, went back to the house for a spot of lunch and a rest from my many labors.
By 4:00 PM, I felt the hand-held battery assist device would be charged enough to warrant another attempt upon the tractor. And to my surprise, the tractor started with minimum effort. Now having the means to carry the hand-held battery assist device back to the garage where it usually resides without having to actually carry it (why do they all weigh as much as they do?), I placed it upon the tractor’s hood and, holding it in place with one hand, drove the tractor back to the house with the other. Not being dressed for mowing, I decided I would become suitably attired and then proceed to mow the lower pasture. Thinking to also deal with a call of nature and remembering that the tractor always restarts once it has turned over after sitting unused for a while, I carefully turned it off and went in the house to do my business.
Did I mention that I’d parked the tractor right in front of our garage, blocking both entrances/exits? No? But you’d guessed, right?
When I came back out, business finished and suitably attired, the tractor refused to even turn over. And the hand-held battery assist device was of no utility whatsoever, having given its charged all in the previous, successful attempt at tractor ignition. So there was nothing for it but to plug the damned thing in again and wait several more hours for it to recharge for the second time.
Having a breakfast meeting scheduled for the following morning, I now turned my attention to moving the temporarily deceased tractor from in front of the garage. Have I mentioned how much a tractor weighs? No, I thought not as well. I eventually had to call for Helen to help, and we managed to scoot it far enough out of the way so as to render the garage doors once again utilitarian.
The next morning, Thursday morning, I fired up my car in preparation for the short journey to the breakfast rallying point and – yes, you are correct – the red low tire pressure warning light was once again aglow. I got out of the car at the restaurant to check the offending tire (as I was now certain I knew the culprit) and, sure enough, my tire pressure gauge indicated it had low pressure. It had sufficient air and had taken three days to get to its existing state, so I felt comfortable going to the restaurant for my breakfast, well-knowing that my usual gas station was only a half mile away and I could refill the tire – again.
Having dealt with the car, I returned to the Farm and reattached the hand-held battery assist device to the tractor battery (reopening the tractor hood in the process, and so on and so forth, etc.) jumped upon the tractor, inserted the key, turning first to the left to engage the glow plug (which still refused to light) and – nothing. Nada. Not even a turn of the radiator fan. Oh, yes, there was a clicking noise, but when it comes to starting tractors, a clicking noise is nothing. Trust me on this, for this much I do understand about things mechanical.
So there was nothing for it but to call the tractor service department to come pick it up and work their magic. Surely you can guess the next part. Come now, surely you can!
And so it is that the tractor still sits where I left it Thursday morning, to the left of the garage as you are facing out, serenely awaiting the appointed hour next Monday when the tractor service department will arrive and carry it away for medication and its annual service.
Did I mention that I have the same feeling for tractor service departments as I have for car dealership service departments – the same feeling, but with a twist? I am reasonably certain that tractor service departments are more sophisticated for all of their rural ambience. I am certain that every time they have your tractor in their possession, they fix the offending problem and then disable a working something prior to re-delivery so that you will have to call them back. After all, they not only get to charge you for the servicing of the tractor, but for its pick up and delivery. I realize that putting this notion into print is risky, since it is just possible that a service agent from a car dealership service department will read this piece and get a nasty idea.
With this blog’s readership? Not likely. I’ll leave it in.
But now I got smart. Clearly, I needed to take the car (did I mention that the topic was now the car?) to have the tire checked for the nail I suspected had taken up residence. So I checked the mileage and compared it to the next servicing point, realized that there was not much overlap and decided to let the car dealership service department check the tire and do its service magic the next day. I phoned my favorite service agent and made an appointment. Now all I had to do was get to Seattle the next day for my two scheduled morning meetings before the tire once again set off the red low pressure tire warning light on my dashboard.
Not only was I successful in this endeavor, but I also got my car into the dealership a half hour prior to my scheduled appointment. I was proud of the latter achievement, thinking it would send me home earlier, forgetting entirely that it simply gave the car dealership service department more time for mischief. During the course of the afternoon they managed to find three additional things to do (and charge me for) and to advise me that there was, indeed, a nail in the tire and – ready for this? – in a location where it couldn’t be repaired. A new tire was required.
Of course I bought into this story. Don’t be silly! And I have a brand, spanking-new tire to prove it!
And an empty wallet.
Oh, did I mention that I had the foresight to take my new laptop with me to the dealership so I could while away the hours of waiting by writing and surfing the internet? Did I mention that the computer absolutely refused to connect to the car dealership’s guest Wi-Fi? I thought not. That’s why I am writing this piece the next morning while pretending I am still at the car dealership. Please don’t tell anyone of this authorial license, as I wouldn’t want my integrity to be impaired. After all, one’s personal integrity is the only thing over which he (in my case) has unilateral control. Unlike things mechanical or electronic, for example.
But here comes the good part – as I was driving away from the car dealership on my one new tire (and my three slightly used ones), the car drove like a dream, even the rattling noises from the back had been removed. What a feeling a well-serviced car gives you; it is even better than the feeling you get when you drive a new car home from the showroom for the first time, because it’s your beloved car in which you’ve spent many a mile and it’s like new. It’s been born again, and you’ve been saved from buying a new one for at least another 5,000 miles. And, on this particular trip home from the car dealership, I rejoiced not only in this feeling of mechanical perfection, but in the certain knowledge that the mechanic had removed the rat’s nest he’d discovered in my air intake filter box and taken a picture of for my edification. Therefore, I was no longer breathing the putrescence that had undoubtedly degraded my mechanical abilities to levels far below my personal norm!
Have I previously mentioned they found a rat’s nest (surely a field mouse’s nest, and not a rat’s nest as they described it)? Have I mentioned they charged me nothing – not one red cent – for its removal? I am, accordingly, deservedly triumphant!
I find that when it comes to things mechanical and electronic, little victories count most.
Hello Gavin,
Your overview of things mechanical was hilarious. Did you forget the facts of life?..
We are born, we fix things, then ( unfortunatly ) we die!
I’m still working on it, but the creaks and crackles are beginning to sound!