Stop breakin' down blues

Though I’ve had my driver’s license for nine years now, I’ve only had my own vehicle for two.  Before that I bummed rides or rode my bike, or, when in high school or on summer vacation, could use one of my parent’s old cars, meaning though I was the only person who drove it, I couldn’t be held responsible for any maintenance or mechanical problems.  I would gladly hand over the keys as I said, “The car is acting funny,” and would get them back when the car had been fixed, remaining ignorant to concepts like transmission, water pump, and headlights.  My father once attempted to show me how to change my own oil, but I didn’t like getting my hands dirty or too close to the hot engine, and was too preoccupied by rolling down the driveway on the wheeled backrest used to examine the undersides of cars.  I’m not a car guy, and when the subject is breeched in conversation I tend to idly daydream until the group switches back to sports or movies or music.  In fact, all the cars I like are actually the ones with the best songs in the commercials.  “I’d like to buy the one with the Modest Mouse song, but I’d settle for the one with the Walkmen song.”   Chrysler recently aired commercials with songs by Celine Dion, and my interest in that particular car instantly shot to zero. 

The time spent having my own car has largely been consumed by fear.  Fear of something going horribly, horribly wrong.  I bought my car, a 1993 Ford Taurus, when it had 130,000 miles on it.  Since then I’ve driven 20,000 miles expecting at any moment to unbuckle my seatbelt, open the door, and roll out of the moving car as it exploded into flame.  Every mile that passes on the odometer is greeted by both a sigh of relief that nothing went wrong, and an increasing feeling of dread, knowing that I’m one mile closer to my fiery grave. 

It’s an old car, and makes lots of strange noises, and I have not been properly trained to recognize the ones that spell trouble.  I’m the only one who drives it, and rarely have a passenger, and lack the Michael Winslow-like ability to accurately replicate the noises over the phone to my dad.  So I’ve taken to ignoring the noises completely, and relying on the more simple theory of:  The car does not move, or is having much difficulty in moving.  Thus, there must be something wrong with the car.  This has happened three times, and three times I’ve taken my car to a mechanic (one by towing), and three times I’ve had to pay a giant bill. 

In the meantime, I have been taking my car for oil changes every 3000 to 3500 miles.  This is easy, you don’t have to be a car guy to know when you need an oil change.  I go to a place which supposedly checks your entire car for other things that could make it explode or stop running, and offers an array of general maintenance options, all at an incredibly inflated price.  But the peace of mind I get for the five miles of traveling afterwards are worth it.  The people that work there are definitely car guys, and I trust them to take care of me.  However, upon every visit they seem to suggest more and more pricey services based on the mileage, like a transmission or fuel system flush, and I always seem to make up some lie about how I had that done at a mechanic a while back, simply because I don’t want to blindly shell out 80 bucks for something I’m not sure if I need.  Today I made one of my visits, and since my car has made very threatening noises when making sharp turns for a few months now, I opted to get the power steering treatment, which came highly recommended by the mechanic who heard my turn into the parking lot.  Add on a fuel filter and a replaced turn signal bulb, and my oil change bill was suddenly 153 dollars.  “It’s been 30,000 miles, so we recommend you get the whole ‘fuck you up the ass with a sharp stick’ treatment.”

A few months ago I drove my girlfriend’s car, after some party where she was busy slurring declarations of love in my ear, and I was amazed at how much I enjoyed driving without having to worry about something going wrong.  Her car was quiet, her car accelerated naturally and evenly, her car didn’t squeak or grind or whine, her car has 125,000 miles less on it than mine.  When I move to Chicago, which looks to be this fall, I’ll sell my Taurus, or maybe just give to my parents to sell, and be content complaining about the poor train service in my neighborhood.  Until then drama is high as I contemplate whether I’ll make it to the move without any third degree burns.