This week, I've been hit in the face with the fact of mortality...of my car.
Early last week,
the beloved Flying Dodgeman started having difficulties.
Difficulties of the flashing-check-engine-light, no-acceleration,
power-failure, inability-to-start type.
The Flying Dodgeman has
been with me longer than any of the other women in my life. A 1999
Intrepid, I have owned her for 5 years and 100,000+ miles. The
thought of her passing saddened me deeply.
On Thursday morning
after arriving home from work, I limped to the shop in her, convinced
that this was to be her final voyage. I gave the mechanic my number
a quick run-down of symptoms, then walked across the parking lot to
WaHo to wait for the doc to pronounce her.
I sat at the bar,
drowning my sorrows in scattered smothered chunked hashbrowns and a
few mugs of decaf. In a pensive mood, I prayed that the damage would
be related to a recent road hazard (because then, insurance would
cover it!) and reminiscing about all the good times we’d had.
Cruising down
Interstate 40 comes a vision of Eternal Judgment. As the streak of
tan passes, you can briefly see the figures inside, their eyes
glowing red, their teeth steel, and their nostrils breathing fire.
The captain holds the tiller in a white-knuckled grip. The scruffy
bearded first mate stares bewildered out the passenger window. The
navigator sits in the back…snoring.
Cursed to drive the
through the countryside of Middle Tennessee until the Last Day (or
until it acquires a navigator who can remain awake for longer than
half an hour, whichever comes first), it is…
The Flying Dodgeman
After about an hour and
the greatest bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit I’ve ever had, I
returned to the shop to receive the bad news. With much trepidation,
I sat in the waiting room, waiting on the mechanic.
The diagnosis: a
burned out coil. Part: $70 Labor: $40. Not having to figure out
how to get to work next week: priceless.
Now, I find myself
praying for a severe-yet-not-incapacitating wreck, preferably with
someone else at fault. I’d like a quick—if violent—death for
the old girl. I just can’t bear to think about her sitting out in
a junkyard, rotting away.
Maybe next time, Mr.
Blue Pass-on-Right Nissan won’t make it around.
