Necessary Evil

Amid a few of the busiest weeks EVER at the Source, I have lost the use of my car for 2 and a half days.
My saga:
I was driving home on Monday night, when another car pulled up really close to my passenger side and started gesticulating. Afraid to look at first, lest I had committed some egregious act for which I was being "thanked," I finally turned my head to the right. The gentleman in the driver's seat was making the "roll down your window motion" and pointing to my car. I complied and was informed that my brake lights had given up their duties. I stared at him for about 3 seconds, hearing what he said but sure he was wrong, I then blurted out, "But they must work, I just had them fixed a month ago." He shook his head with sympathetic look on his face and then drove up to meet the traffic in his lane. I continued home, fuming, and worried that I was going to get smacked in the back end every time I stopped in rush hour traffic on Rt. 126 (which is horrible - worse, even, than the Pike traffic). I made it home safely but not in time to call the garage that had "fixed" the faulty brake lights the previous month.

The next morning, I called the shop and confirmed that I could bring my car to their other branch, which was farther from home, but down the street from my office. When I handed my receipt to the rep at the shop and explained the problem, I received one of the blankest stares I've had the pleasure of receiving in months. He said, "you mean, the bulbs are burnt out?" To which I replied, "that does seem to be the case, though they were just replaced for a mere $90 last month by your other branch." He agreed to look at my car, but not until lunch. I drove to work and had a colleague bring me back to the shop at 11:30, where I left my precious vehicle in their capable hands.

4:49pm, later that same day: having received no phone call, and starting to worry about meeting my friends for the Red Sox game to which I had tickets that evening, I phoned the shop. The rep with whom I had my earlier dealings said, "oh, the car with the brake lights. Oh. It's not a problem with the brake lights, there is something much worse wrong with your car. I am going to write up an estimate and call you back in 15 minutes to let you know the deal." Great.

5:08pm: Upon answering my phone, "The problem is in the fuse panel box - it is completely burnt out, which, in turn, is causing the brake lights to short out and only work intermittently." Impressed by the use of the word intermittently, I replied, "Uh." He continued, "in order to fix the problem, we have to replace the entire panel box." This sounded very serious indeed, so I braced myself as I asked, "How much?" He came back at me with the figure $279.15 - a seemingly reasonable price for such a crappy problem. "Okay," I answered. Then, came the zinger, "yes, ma'am, we'll order that box right now and put it in tomorrow."
I'm in Watertown, about to head to a Sox game and there is blessedly little public transportation (a bus that I have no idea where to catch, followed by the red line, followed by the green line-2 hours later, I'd be at my destination) to bring me where I needed to go. "But, how am I going to get home?" He must've heard the panic in my voice because he offered me a loaner if I could get to the shop in the next few minutes, but explained that the car had to be returned at 7:30am the next day. I had to be in Cambridge the next day to present info about the library to teachers taking one of our Summer Institutes - I explained this. He then offered me a ride to Cambridge if I got him his loaner back by 7:30-7:45am. I pounced on the next person that I saw to secure a ride to the shop and went to collect my wheels for the evening.

A silver Honda Civic with stickers all over it advertising the shop from which it'd come greeted me and I was off to the game. As previously mentioned, the Sox won (and they won yesterday and I'm expecting the White Sox to continue their losing streak as the idiots pull down another 'W' tonight), and I zipped home in my fuel-efficient borrowed Civic, and zipped back in the morning, right on time. I was now ready for that ride to the Longfellow House in Cambridge.
"The what?" said the young man behind the counter.
"The Longfellow House."
"Is that a school?"
"It's a historic home."
"No kidding?"
"Oddly enough, I'm not. It's in Cambridge. Near Harvard. Which is a school."
"Lemme see if anyone knows what that is."

Finally, a mechanic was located who had previously worked at Harvard and had an inkling of where we were going. We set off for Cambridge. The mechanic and I discussed the weather, my car problem, and as the car radio was set to the local sports talk radio, the Sox. This was followed by a mildly uncomfortable silence while the radio told us about Gary James and his trial for putting cameras in ladies bathrooms so he could watch them urinate. Lovely. We made it to the right area and I exited the car with a very big thank you. I presented my library info and found my way back to work with a colleague. Around 3pm, having received no phone calls, I rang up my friendly rep to see how my car and it's burnt box were doing. When the rep came on the line, he seemed perplexed that I was calling, asked me which car I was calling about and what was the problem. I regurgitated the information he had fed to me the night before, a bit worried that I had temporarily lost my mind and called the wrong shop, or that they had lost my car. He finally recognized me and said, "oh, your box is coming from Maryland (heehee) and it hasn't arrived yet. I'm not sure if I will get here in time to put it in tonight. Could you get a ride home tonight?" Not funny. So, I queried my wonderful fiance who agreed to chauffeur my sorry, car-less ass home and back again in the morning.

And the story will have a happy-ish ending: my car is ready, the brake lights again burn brightly, the work actually cost the amount quoted to me, and I have a ride to the shop after work. However, this entire experience has just illustrated my complete reliance on four doors and an engine (the roof and CD player are nice), and I find this reliance frustrating and one-sided. I mean, it would be nice if my car gave me a hug, just once, to say thank you for the tasty, expensive gas I supply weekly. And would a kind word be so difficult to muster, especially after the new tires last month? If I wasn't afraid to look ridiculous (and to face sure and immediate painful death), I would get a Schwinn in a heartbeat - leave that car in a lot somewhere alone and neglected. But, tomorrow is another day. And I must press on.