Shot Across the Bow

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.