I have been struggling a little bit with my car that past
few weeks. And while sometimes you wish
car repairs are one of those things you could post-pone doing, they sort of
have a way of ensuring they become urgent.
It’s annoying really. The damn
thing just stops.
So mine was on the verge of doing just that when I took it
in for repairs. The way I saw it was
that either I put holes in the bottom and we could propel it Flintstone style, or I needed to find
some mechanical assistance. And after weighing
my options, the pro’s and cons, i.e. no
gym membership needed, less petrol costs, etc., I decided that mechanical
assistance is probably best.
Having taken in my car previously for a disk replacement, I
took it to the same place, not sure if they do clutch replacement or not. I drive in and roll down my window to
ask.
One of the sales people comes to my car and asks if he can
help and in response to my query replies,
“No, we normally do not do clutch replacement, but ‘don’t
worry, we can make a plan”. (I can see
that the motivation to ‘make a plan’ is clearly a result of this man liking
what he sees. God bless those who make
hair dye, make-up, spanx and booster bras.
Heaven knows what I am going to do
when my blessed age of 29 gradually creeps up).
The statement ‘don’t worry’ is really an indication that
there are things you should be worrying about but are being asked to make the
deliberate choice not too. And that
alone, is usually reason enough to worry!
The ‘making of a plan’ is infamous for just that. It is as it sounds. People organise, and make a plan. And the plan is, aside from the paper with
pictures of dead presidents, a paperless transaction.
Experience has taught me that with car repairs, it really does
not matter how business gets done, because
someone is about to be screwed. It was my hope and prayer that it wasn’t
going to be me this time.
Not faced with an infinite amount of options (my car will not go far), I submit to
‘the plan’.
A few hours later, after some price negotiation, which is
now about 60% of the original quotation, they need cash to “purchase the parts”.
Internal alarm bells sound.
‘Oh, hell no. My car and cash? Sounds like a rat.’
A request, to which I asked if they could not purchase the parts
and I reimburse them?
Besides, how far am I going to go if they have my car, out
of the two of us, they were sitting with the balance of power. An agreement to which they originally agreed
and then reneged and I needed to come up with at least half, an amount to which
they undertook to finance the balance.
I walk back to the workshop, cash in hand revisiting the
process in my head and examining myself for errors of judgement and checking my
internal stupidity barometer... It is now 4pm and the car, is now laying in
about four hundred pieces; a sight at which my stomach turned and an obvious indication that it is much too
late to change my mind.
Not having transport, the ‘garage’ arranges for a car for
me.
My ‘courtesy car’ is the first guy’s personal car, a 2004,
royal blue Corsa lite. Not a luxury car
by any stretch of the imagination, but hey, a car is a car and they are sitting
with my car, in 400 pieces, no paperwork and cash. I need to have my head examined. At
least my having a car (albeit a poor trade off), is a small consolation that
they are somewhat serious about fixing my car, so I tell myself.
So I climb in and prepare to depart. The car’s gear shift where the gear
indicators had been rubbed off with time and so the first exercise was to establish
exactly where reverse was. Incidentally
the car also brought to my attention that power steering is a luxury.
After some effort I manage and pull myself into traffic. I am acutely aware that I am putting on the
windshield wipers instead of the signal lights when suddenly I am jerked
backwards. I am now driving from the
back seat instead of the front; a position from which I am no longer able to
reach the pedals thanks to the sudden collapse of the seatback. In a state of heighten alertness (code for full on panic), I pull
desperately on the steering wheel shifting myself forward enough to access the
foot petals and slam on the brakes before the rapidly approaching red light. My heart pounding, I manage to stop the car
and attempt to get the seat back to return to its upright position.
A whole lot of drama for a simple half a block of progress.
Yes, I am missing my
car even more now. And an FYI,
seatbelts are entirely useless when there is no seat back.
All in all, I manage to arrive home safely with only two additional
terrifying visits to the back seat; holding on desperately to hope established
on the promise that the car would be fixed yet this evening.
When it’s ready “we
will call you”, they had promised.
But by six pm, I still had no telephone call and now I am
beginning to wonder if I had not inadvertently purchased the petrol to take my
car to Mozambique for a permanent holiday on the coast – which wouldn’t be so
bad if I were in it... assuming of
course that ‘in it’ would imply at minimum, sitting comfortably in the driver’s
seat and not tucked in the boot (trunk).
Once again, I find myself revisiting my decision making processes
for errors of judgement and decide that perhaps I need to drive back to the
garage and check whether my car is still there (I mean – because after all I will be able to something about it if it
isn’t-haha).
So I climb back into my courtesy chariot and aside from the
automated front to back seat transfer mechanism, I also do not have headlights
that actually work and it is already dark outside. I drive back to the garage... periodically
flashed by oncoming traffic – the polite way of saying, “turn on your lights you moron” - with only one trip to the back seat this
time.
I arrive at the garage to find that the building has been
locked up. The side gate is still open
and one ‘back business’ is still busy, but not the one where my car is
located. The good news: my car is still
there, albeit with no front tires. It
does however look as though it is in a few less pieces than my last visit, but
it does not look like it has any intention of being returned to me yet this
evening; a sight which causes some
irritation.
On my way again, I call and enquire whether my car will
still be fixed yet today. I will check
and phone you back, he tells me.
The phone remains
silent.
I still have no
evidence that my car is there or had been there in the event that someone
drives it away.
‘I should have taken a
picture’! I think to myself more irritated.
I go back, this time with a friend, angry with myself for
not thinking of taking a picture the first time around.
It’s been about 30 minutes since I left. It’s now closed. Locked up tight. I estimate the time gap and assume that my
car must still be there. We travel around to the back and peak over the
boundary fence.
Yes it has reached the
full height of madness , a security guard is walking over to check ‘what in
hell we are doing’. We ignore him.
The car is there. Its
bonnet open and front tires still off; a sight
which this time causes relief.
I take a picture between the barbed wire attached to the top
of the boundary fence as ‘evidence’ if needed, that my car really ‘was
there’. Just in case.
That night, I put myself to bed and sink into an uneasy
sleep.
The next morning I wake up and arrive at the garage as soon
as I am able, the complimentary Corsa keeping me in the front seat the whole
way this time.
And there she was. My
car. All fixed up, in one piece and
ready to go; running like new.
I breathed a sigh of relief, said a prayer of thanks and
paid the balance.
For a change, it’s a
happy ending, but I am well aware that it could have been otherwise.
I cannot help but wonder if more happy endings such as this
one would soon start to change our expectations and perceptions. It may even significantly contribute towards
a reduction in paranoia.
But that, I suppose, is entirely up to us.
