24-June-2008

UP IN SMOKE

Aside from the fact that I was, for the moment, financially capable of demonstrating a little more responsibility than usual, it started out like any other day in recent weeks.  I'd been searching for jobs online until the wee hours last night.  I'd slept in until around noon — give or take a couple hours.  It was early afternoon and I was prepared to engage the day.

I was actually feeling pretty good about being caught up on the previous month's rent and having all but a small fraction of July's rent already in the bank.  That hasn't happened since last December.  It feels good, very good.  Being on unemployment grinds you down.  It locks you into a survival mode.  It's PTSD with weekly checks.

You get used to not wanting anything.  What good would it do ya?  Ya got no money to buy anything that isn't an absolute necessity anyway.  You get used to not going anywhere.  You can't afford the gas.  This was true even before fuel prices joined the space station.  You get used to doing without and being without.  You learn to make do, get by, and become creative with cheap food and ways to fix things without spending any money.  Either that, or you drink more water so you're not as hungry and you work around, and  without, whatever broke. 

It's like being in a bad accident.  You tend not to remember all the "little things" that used to make you feel good about daily life.  Little things like Progresso soup instead of the store brand's dented can.  You start eating your sandwiches without pickles.  The occasional salad becomes a luxury.  You eat less fruit.  You wear jeans and t-shirts for more days in a row so you can do the wash less often.  You discover that frozen peas really dress up those Ramen noodle soups and make a steady diet of them tolerable.

Now I'm just going backwards.  Sorry.  I was going to tell you about this week's 'adventure.'  Yeah, except for the smoke and wanting to be proactively responsible, it started out just like any other day.

At last count, there were at least 800 fires burning to the west of us in California.  And, no, there is not an extra zero in that number — that's the official TV news count.  About ninety percent of the time we have prevailing westerly winds here.  So, of course, all that smoke is blowing through here.

Yesterday wasn't too, too bad, but the TV news did advise those with respiratory issues to stay indoors with the air conditioner on.  Comparatively, yesterday's smoke level was like lighting a match, and today's air quality was like holding a piece of coal in your hand.  It is seriously bad.  Really bad.

I cannot see the hills that are less than a mile behind the house.  I cannot see Allan and Becky's place just over a mile away on the other side, and I cannot see the huge radio relay mountain behind their house.  An hour before sunset, the sun looked like a giant red beach ball in the sky and you could look directly at it without sunglasses on.  The whole day felt like an episode of Star Trek.  It's a different planet with smoke this thick everywhere.

My throat is sore and raspy, and I can't stop coughing.  My eyes are dry, red, and itchy.  Ten minutes outside and you can feel the soot on your skin.  It's nasty.  Honestly, I don't know how the fire fighters do it — and with all that gear on, too!  They're a hell of a lot more competent than I am.

Not only is the air quality extremely bad, but with all this smoke already in the air, if there was a brush fire near us, we'd be unable to see it until it was right on top of us. Thanks to all the rain last winter, there's nothing but tall, thick, dry grasses, brush, and assorted weeds for miles in every direction.  Out here where thousands of acres of land are nothing but kindling and rocks, and the wind blows 24/7, it's a very, very sobering concept.  Add to that the masses of young people starting their summer vacations, all the drunk smokers stumbling out of casinos at all hours to drive home, irresponsible four-wheelers, the hordes of stupid people out there, and wind gusts of thirty-five to sixty-five miles per hour – it can make you down right paranoid.  Sometimes, there aren't enough hoses.

Well, so, that's the weather report, now on to other stuff.  The last time I got the oil changed in the car, a kid in the shop told me that a transmission seal was leaking.  I'd been hoping to nurse it along until I got a job, or my Stimulus Check to fix it, and I'd been hoping it wouldn't cost much to fix.

With this in mind I went by a shop here in town that has been recommended by a couple different people.  Hey, if the guy's any good, it would benefit us all to keep him busy just because he's right here in town.  You know, keep the money in the community, high gas prices, and all.

The owner of Broken Arrow Auto Repair is a very nice Native American guy.  The shop is pretty clean.  I like that he checked particulars in the book rather than trying to guess at information and prices.  The seal was indeed leaking, but was not very low on fluid.  He refilled it and showed me where the bolt is that let's you fill it.  Then he gave me the bad news.  In order to fix that seal, you have to drop the axle.  Yes, that's right, it's the very same axle I recently paid $200 to have the CV joint replace on.  I have to wonder why the shop that changed the CV joint didn't mention that $15 seal at the time they did the CV joint.  I don’t really wonder, I know they plan to soak you.  And they did.  Well, maybe I'll get a temp job and be able to pay the two hours labor necessary to change a $15 seal before it totally disintegrates and fries the transmission.  That's my plan and I'm stickin' to it.

I checked the tire pressure on all four tires while Doug refilled the transmission fluid in that leaky seal.  I had recently checked all the fluid levels, so I only gave the engine compartment a superficial glance.  While in the repair shop, it occurred to me that I should also plan to drain and refill the antifreeze for summer.  I looked at the fan belts and thought maybe I should consider changing them before summer too, if it wouldn't be too expensive.

The guy I bought the car from two years ago had installed new belts and hoses, and given the car a full tune-up just before I bought it, so I've not concerned myself with much more than checking fluid levels.  And now, the leaky seal had fresh fluid. We stopped at the Village Idiot, I mean Market, to grab drinks for the two-hour ride.  I got a giant bottle of water and Bobby Sue got a giant bottle of root beer. We were ready to roll, and off we went to Lockwood for cheap alfalfa cubes for Jake.

Ruby made herself comfortable in my lap, I settled the speedometer at seventy, and Bobby Sue was sampling different window heights to avoid mussing his hair.

Twenty miles from home, in Fernley, it became clear that being in the sun and on my lap made Ruby too hot.  A few minutes later we were on the freeway and I decided to turn on the air conditioner.  Might as well find out if it still works or if it'll need a summer checkup, too.  Ah, much better;  windows up and air on; quieter and much, much cooler.

The speed limit on I-80 between Fernley and Sparks is seventy, so, naturally, I was cruising at seventy-five.  You pretty much have to speed a little to keep from being run over by all the semi trucks.  For the most part, they only do seventy while going uphill.

We hit a nice downhill stretch near the power plant and I passed a big truck hauling triples.  "Did you hear that?" I asked Bobby.  "Hear what?"  "I thought I heard something."  "Must've been something on that truck."  "Yeah, maybe."

A mile or two later….  "Ya know, I don't think it was on the truck.  It sounded like something under the car, but I didn't see anything in the road.  Were you messing with the seat belt, something on the floor, or something by the door?  'Cause that's where I heard it."  "Well, yeah, I was moving the seat belt a little.  Like this."  He demonstrated, but could not duplicate the sound.  I wonder what it was.

A mile or two later….  It occurred to me to look around and give the whole thing a little more thought.  I'd watched Doug carefully and made sure he didn't leave anything lying around loose in the engine compartment, so it was unlikely to be anything like that.  I hadn't noticed anything loose or flopping around the last time I checked fluid levels.  I hadn't been hearing anything unusual previously, and wasn't hearing anything unusual now.  Besides, the car was running fine.

I might have hit eighty just before I thought to glance at the dash.  A red light.  What the heck is that symbol?  It looks like a battery.  Crap, if it's a battery light, then maybe the alternator crapped out.  Maybe that was the noise I heard.  I immediately turned off the air conditioner and we opened the windows.  I figured we'd still be ok so long as I didn't turn the engine off until I got back home.  I brought it back down to seventy and we continued.

All seemed well, but the incident was still nagging at me.  What the heck else could it be?  A mile or two later…..  I looked at the dash again.  This time I looked at the w-h-o-l-e dash for clues.  I wanted clues and I got one.  The temperature gauge needle was at the top of the red zone.  I hit the emergency flashers, slowed down, and started making a noise that Bobby found hilarious until he realized I wasn't doing a chicken impression, but was saying 'f*ck' rapidly and repeatedly.

We were headed downhill and the gauge began to drop as I slowed the car.  I knew there was a Chevron station only a few miles ahead and hoped the car could make it that far.  We pressed on, slowly, except for my hyper chicken impression which continued for most of the next hour.

We were rolling safely along, all the cars and trucks behind us were giving us plenty of room, the gauge was back to normal temps, and I felt sure we could make it to the station when I noticed the gauge climbing again.  Crap, crap, crap, and double crap!  We were midway up a small hill.  The hill was too much, the gauge spiked to the red zone again, and I gave up.  We pulled off the pavement to consider our options.

It was after four-thirty, shops would be closing soon.  I had to connect with a tow truck, a shop, and a ride home in less than half an hour.  I was never so glad that I remembered to put my cell phone in my purse.  And lucky that we weren't in a dead zone.

I had a couple tow truck and shop business cards in my purse and called them first.  The original plan was to get the car back home to Silver Springs.  I was hoping to be able to talk Allen into fixing it, or helping me fix it, in order to save money.

The first place I called had only one tow truck.  That truck was on it's way from Silver Springs to Fernley, in our direction, but the driver had not taken his cell phone and there was no radio in the truck.  The guy I was talking to was in their Silver Springs shop and had no idea how long the trip to Fernley would take.  The truck would have to go from Fernley, back to Silver Springs (to get the message), then back through Fernley to get to us!  It didn't sound very promising but did sound like they'd soak me for all that backtracking.  They quoted me a price of $250 right off the bat.  "It might be more."  Mmmmm, no thanks.

The second place I called also had only one truck.  This driver had a radio, but was already on scene at the rollover accident we'd passed in the eastbound lane on our way to Overheatingville.  There was no estimate when that truck would be free either.  Considering the paramedics, highway patrol cars, and fire trucks on the scene, it would most likely be quite some time before that tow truck would be free.  At least their quote was less, only $200.  It came with the suggestion that most places would charge closer to $400 for a tow that far.  "That far"??  It's only forty miles.  Geez.

Wait!  Maybe Allen has a tow chain!  Maybe Allen and Becky are home, can tow us back, and give us a ride home in the process!  Tow chain or not, neither of them were willing to try it.  They both felt it was much too dangerous in a seventy mile per hour zone and suspected it might even be against the law.  Well, at least they were home.

Becky broke out the phone book and gave me some shops and tow truck places to call in Sparks.  We were only ten miles outside of town; it'd be cheaper to tow to Sparks than all the way back to Silver Springs anyway.  This seemed like a much better idea.  Besides, there's more competition in the city, so prices for repairs should be better and parts should be more accessible.  Yeah, that's the ticket, let's call someplace in Sparks!

I thought I got lucky when I reached City Towing at five minutes to five.  They had a truck available and also do repairs.  If you get your car repaired there, you get a discount on the towing.  Their labor rates were only $50/hr, so I didn't figure I could beat that deal.  I told them to come get us, then called Becky back to come pick us up.  Bobby Sue, Ruby and I began the wait for rescue.

The first order of business was to get safely out of the car.  The passenger side wheels were off the pavement, but with all that sand sloping downhill just beyond, I chose not to take the driver's side wheels off the pavement too.  The car was far enough from the traffic lane to get out safely, but it doesn't hurt to be cautious when multi-ton trucks are only a few feet away and bearing down on you at over seventy miles per hour.  It crossed my mind that, at least, it would be quick and I wouldn't have to look for jobs anymore.  I waited for a gap in the traffic, then got out.

Ruby had to go pee.  I walked her back to the nearest green and white freeway sign to see what exit we were near.  "Waltham next right."  The Chevron station was beyond Waltham.  We'd not have made Waltham either.  It was at the top of the just-a-little-bit-too-far hill.  The Waltham sign was only twenty yards from the car and Ruby thoroughly enjoyed smelling the rabbit trail we followed to get to it.

Back at the car, it occurred to me that this would be a very good time to have a couple folding camp chairs in the car.  There weren't any, but it would have been a really good time to have them.  At least we had drinks and it was only in the high eighties, not one hundred and ten degrees.  It was six o'clock and neither the tow truck nor Allen could get to us before seven.  Might as well get comfortable.

As I watched the traffic flying by, I realized we were somewhat vulnerable.  I began to formulate a plan in case someone with ill intent stopped to "help."  First, I put the flashlight, the fire extinguisher, and both beach towel front seat covers in the trunk.  Then I took the cell phone car charger out of the glove compartment and put it into my purse.

Next we grabbed our drinks, my purse, and the beach towel that covers the back seat.  I laid the beach towel a good distance away from the car and upstream to the oncoming traffic.  I read somewhere this is safest.  If anyone drifts into the emergency parking lane and hits your disabled car, the theory is that both vehicles will be hurtled ahead and away from you, so long as you are far enough away from, and behind, the disabled vehicle.  Made sense to me, so that's what we did.

Ruby and I parked ourselves on the beach towel there on the sandy hillside as if we were at the beach.  Aside from the roaring traffic noise, it would have been rather pleasant if not for my rent money steaming away right in front of my eyes.

We began to speculate if anyone would stop to offer help or not.  The car was in an excellent position to be seen by oncoming traffic for at least a mile back.  There was a long, slow turn just before the straightaway of the just-a-little-bit-too-far hill we were half way up.  And, there was a nice open stretch behind us for someone to safely pull over.

Naturally, the concept of someone stopping to help quickly turned to fear about what we'd do if they were not stopping to help, but stopping to rob us.  My knees don't allow me to run fast or far, if at all.  Bobby Sue immediately offered that he'd "not let anyone hurt us."  He straightened when he said it; it made him a tad taller.  I suppose he went from five foot six to at least five foot six and one-half inches at that moment.  Not exactly a deflection for anyone with ill intent.  One good swing at someone and he'd throw his back out anyway.  No, this clearly needed more thought.

Paranoid?  Really?  I don’t think so.  Maybe I watch too much crime TV, but we all know serial killers and other assorted nut jobs are out there.  They seem to be everywhere and friends and neighbors after the fact always report that, "He was always so kind, and helpful… he seemed so nice."  Right.  Not on my watch, chump.  Homey don't play that.

But what to do?  We had no weapons, were not near any structures or other people, I could not run, Bobby could only throw his back out, and Ruby could only bark.  Make that yip.  Two lanes of speeding traffic were in front of us, nothing was along the freeway for at least a mile in either direction, a barbed wire fence divided the freeway property from miles and miles of barren foothills behind us.

I began to calculate how many cars were going by in ten minutes and what the odds might be that one of them would be a nut job in the next hour or so.

Maybe I was getting a little paranoid.  It was still broad daylight and not even beginning to get dark yet.  I landed on the idea of 'divide and conquer.'  Bobby Sue decided to stand the whole time, so I suggested that, if anyone stopped, he should slowly, inconspicuously, move away from me, and back towards the car and the freeway; then prepare to run, even if it only ended up being around and around my car to avoid capture.  I figured one of us had to try to make a break for it and survive to make the police report so the perp could be caught.  I also figured I might be able to keep a nut job talking long enough for Bobby's waving arms to draw the "we-need-help" attention of a passing driver.

It was not an optimum plan.  Only the surety of an armed response would be an optimum plan in my book, but it seemed the best we could do under the circumstances.  I felt better just knowing that there was "a plan."

I took it another step farther and realized it would be pointless to 'hide' my purse in the trunk.  Anyone who intended robbery and didn't see a woman's purse beside her, would certainly assume it was in the car somewhere.  No, no, no, hiding it in the trunk would never work.  Best to just let them have the purse.

Sure.  I can report the stolen checks and Visa card.  Let 'em take it.  Crap!  Wait!  There's nearly one hundred dollars cash in there, too!  I can't afford to lose cash.  Crap!  Now what should I do?

There was a billboard not far from the beach towel I was sitting on and a barbed wire fence between the billboard and the freeway easement.  We were surrounded by tumbleweeds. Of course!  What better place to hide a coin purse full of dough than in the tumbleweeds?  I counted the t-posts between the clump of tumbleweeds nearest the beach towel and the billboard, then tossed my coin purse under one of them for safe keeping.

I began to feel a little easier about our situation.  All this plotting and planning also served a good purpose.  It allowed me to totally block out the fact that my once trusty, but now disabled, car was probably going to cost me a shitload of money to fix.  Money I do not have.  Money I need for rent.  Money that cannot be readily replaced.  I'd need a job for that.  I still have no job, so coming up with "more" money is not an option.  It's a nightmare is what it is.  Better to think about serial killers.  It's not as hard to imagine escaping a serial killer.  There is no escape from auto repairs after a breakdown.  No escape at all.  There's only sinking deeper and deeper into the shop vacuum that will suck your wallet inside out.

The first person to stop and offer help was a stocky, handsome, smiling, white haired gentleman who actually bothered to get out of his car to check on us.  I hollered at him that we had a tow truck and a friend coming and thanked him for stopping.  He smiled, waved, and got back in his car.  He was too far away to see if he had a wedding ring on or not, but I immediately regretted not letting him get close enough to see if he was tall enough for me.  He looked like a nice, happy guy.  Oh well.

The next hero was also a stocky man.  This guy was younger and sporting WY plates on his silver Chevy truck.  He looked angry and seemed to have an attitude.  An image of the satisfaction I'd feel after throwing sand in his eyes crossed my mind briefly.  He didn't get out, but rolled down his passenger side window.  Clearly, this meant trouble.  I waved an "ok" sign and a thumbs up as I hollered that we were fine and thanked him for stopping.  Thankfully, he nodded and drove off.

A few minutes later, Allen pulled up.  A full hour had gone by already.  After the last rescue during our rock hopping experience, I simply had to put my hand on his shoulder and point out that there wasn't a rock in sight and I wasn't stuck in the sand either.  Allen grinned and said, "Yeah, right, huh?  But last time you were stuck, and this time you broke down — this doesn't count."  Ever the generous gentleman.

I began to tell the story of what happened just before we stopped making westward progress as we walked over to the car.  Allen was nice enough to look around and check a few things for me.  I always assume a shop is going to try to rip me off and sell me parts and repairs I don't need.  Allen determined that the serpentine belt was indeed absent, but that the water pump and the alternator still turned freely, so I probably didn't need either replaced.  It was a start.  Very little steam and no water had been apparent during the entire event, so there was hope that the radiator had survived as well.  We could smell it, but it didn't become a geyser or anything like that.  Allen removed the radiator cap to find that the bottom of it had broken off inside the radiator, but there was still water near the top of the radiator and in the overflow bucket.  Yeah!  Things are looking better.  It's probably just the belt.

Allen hadn't been there fifteen minutes when the tow truck arrived.  Talk about timing!  Whatta deal.  I completed a standard form with my name, address, phone number and signature, gave the tow guy my car key, and was done with the whole thing for the night.  Just like that.

On the way home, we talked about all the possible repairs and what I should beware of the shop telling me or trying to pull.  It was reassuring, but I knew, in the long run, it was not going to save me any money.  The tow alone was nearly one hundred bucks.  One hundred bucks of Rent Money.  Ugh.

Thanks to the auto mishap, we hadn't made it to the feed dealer and Jake was out of feed.  Allen stopped by his house and grabbed three flakes of their goats' hay for Jake's dinner.  Allen drove us the mile farther to Jake's Acre.  Jake was glad to see flakes again, I filled the water barrels, and we were done.  Another mile later, and we were home; and definitely done for the day.  Or should I say done in by the day.

Serial killer adrenaline had finally worn off and I was feeling totally drained.  The images of a billboard with the words "Got rent money?" and what I imagine homelessness to look like began flashing in front of my eyes.  Oh yeah, this is Stress with a capital "S."  No doubt about it.

I thought a decent dinner might help.  I started water boiling for the broccoli and put a couple small potatoes in the microwave.  The potatoes were done first, so I loaded them down with butter and cheese and ate them while the broccoli boiled on. By the time I finished the potatoes the broccoli was about half done.  I put a big chunk of hamburger in a small frying pan and cut more cheese for the burger.  I'd eaten a sizeable stack of broccoli by the time the burger was done.  Ruby had helped me a little with the spuds, and, to my surprise, the broccoli.  She was even more helpful with the burger.  We were only able to finish part of it.  We were just too full.

By this time, I could barely keep my eyes open.  I was spent.  Totally spent.  I flopped down on the bed fully clothed and fell asleep within moments.  Oh yeah, this is Stress at work again.

I woke around midnight and used the bathroom.  Then I realized that I needed to check my email because I'd sent a new, revised resume and plea for jobs to all the temp agencies on Sunday.  I needed to see if I got any results.  It doesn't look good to beg for jobs, then not respond if you get an offer.

Ah, good!  There were things to respond to.  I ended up responding, searching for more options, completing a lengthy online application, and waiting for my ultra slow dial-up connection until 05:00.  Then I was r-e-a-l-l-y tired.  I woke Ruby and made her go outside to pee, then put us both back in bed.  I fell back to sleep so quickly that I didn't even have time to worry about the car.

I woke again around ten and immediately wondered why the shop hadn't called about the car yet.  They opened at eight and had assured me it would be looked at first thing in the morning.  Panic, fear, suspicion, and the accompanying Stress came rushing in to help me dial.  I was no longer tired.  I was keenly aware of every second that passed.  I felt like I'd been wrongly accused of murder and was waiting for the jury to render a verdict after hearing a purely circumstantial case against me.  "Pins and needles" doesn't begin to describe the trepidation I felt.  My stomach began to churn.

The call started with good news.  The tow would only be about $60, not $100.  Replacing the serpentine belt is only an hour job.  The belt itself is only about $25 bucks.  The water pump and alternator were fine.  Parts were already ordered and on the way.  He expected the car to be ready by 2 p.m.  All good.

Here comes the bad news.  The radiator had cracked and would need replaced.  That's another hour's labor.  There's one other belt on the car.  It's right near the serpentine belt.  Might as well replace it while the mechanic is in the vicinity.  That belt is only about $10.  With the new radiator comes a new radiator cap and new antifreeze.  Until they put in a new radiator and let the car run long enough to heat up the engine, there was no way to tell if the heads had warped or not.  That would be another $500 or so.

I had no choice.  It had to be fixed.  There was no more Rent Money.  What had been Rent Money had just been transferred to an offshore account and I did not have the account number.  I couldn't feel my arms.  I had the sensation that my hair was standing straight out from my head in all directions, even though it was tucked back in a small ponytail.  Stress.  It's just Stress.  Keep breathing.

The nice man at the City Tow repair shop said he'd call back in a couple hours and let me know about the heads, and, oh yeah, if the car would start or not.  I couldn't hold it together anymore.  I set the handset back on the phone and started crying.  It was all just too much.  W-A-Y too much.

I've been struggling to make ends meet since last November, when I lost my job.  In all that time I've only found four temp jobs.  The last one was supposed to be a temp-to-hire job.  By the end of the first week I was beginning to relax and felt like I really fit in.  It was work I liked, would be good at, and I had my own office with a big window.  Friday morning, my boss at the temp site came in to tell me that I could finish the day, but then I'd be done.  Turns out June is their busiest month, but July and August are very slow.  So, they don't actually need anyone in that position after all.  Swell.  Just friggin' swell.  Go ahead, give me false hope then pull the rug out from under me.  Oh, wait, they already did that.

Sh*t.  Sh*t.  Sh*t.  And double sh*t.  Might as well throw in a few more hyper chicken imitations, too.  Damn it to hell anyway.  What else can happen?  I didn't think it could get worse.  I didn't think there was anything else to go wrong.  I mean, when everything is already 'wrong' -- what else can happen?  Your car can break down, that's what.  Next?  Oh, next I expect either to break a leg or choke on a chicken bone.  That's about all that's left.  I hope.

Sure enough, he called back in two hours.  They had the radiator in and had tested it.  All the hoses held and the head did not seem to be warped.  He did mention that it was running on three cylinders and that they'd be happy to put new spark plug wires and new spark plugs in it for me.  He claimed the wires cost about $30.

I haven't even priced wires for this car before, but had a gut feeling they didn't cost that much.  I also became very suspicious when he said it was running on three cylinders, because I know for a fact it runs just fine on all four.  There is, however, one wayward plug wire that tends to lift off the plug now and then.  So, the wires probably do need replaced, but I'm not paying $50/hr labor for something I can do myself.  I suggested he push the wire back down on the plug and stop trying to sell me stuff.  He said ok and that the radiator cap, which, oddly, did not come with the new radiator, was on the way and the car would indeed be done by 2 p.m.

I asked for a grand total on the towing, parts, and labor.  I heard some papers rustling before he read the list of items and prices to me.  It came to $350.  Keep breathing.  This has to be the storm.  There has to be a silver lining in here somewhere.

I got into the shower, hoping the pleasant, clean smell of soap would calm and refresh me.  All it did was make me clean.  I got dressed, made the bed, took out two bags of trash, let Ruby go pee, and had a big glass of sugar-free chocolate milk.  I was almost ready to bring Suzebel back home.

Bobby's payee, he's on disability, loaned him a small Toyota pickup a couple weeks ago.  He got her permission to drive it to Sparks to get my car.  She insisted I drive because Bobby gets nervous in traffic and is not the world's best driver anyway.  Putting gas in a small truck so I can go 50 miles to Sparks sure beats the heck out of gassing up my big truck to go anywhere.

I made Bobby double check the fluid levels, tire pressure, and fan belts before we left.  Ruby was happy to stay home for this trip.  We loaded up and headed out.

We both cheered when we passed the spot where the car had broken down.  "Well, we're doing better than we did yesterday!"  A few minutes later we were at the feed dealer's and loading up ten bags of alfalfa cubes.  The weight of five hundred pounds of feed in the back of the truck made Bobby Sue quite nervous.  He worried that the tires would burst or the springs would fail.  It was stacked below the sides and ahead of the rear axle, but he was still worried.  He relaxed when I told him we were only about five miles from the auto shop and that I'd put half the bags in the back of my car when we got there.

We were off again.  Next stop:  Shop Vacuum Central.  The directions they'd given me were good and the street was easy to find.  The actual shop was not so easy to find.  All the way down the block, on both sides of the street, were older, messy, non-descript', light industrial businesses.  They all looked like a front for something illegal and their signs were small, faded, and hard to read.  I was glad we were not trying to find this place in the dark.

Once we finally found the City Towing sign, we had to figure out how the heck to get into the place.  It was a maze of junk, old cars, and cyclone fencing with razor wire.  There only seemed to be one way in, so we drove in right past the "Police Ordinance:  Authorized Personnel Only Beyond This Point…. Under penalty of law….. blah, blah, blah" sign, and parked right next to my poor little Suzebel.

It was an impound yard!  An old, filthy, cramped, nasty, smelly impound yard.  There wasn't one single rock in the whole gravel covered place that wasn't covered in grease and oil.  All the cars, except Suzebel, looked like hardened criminals.  It was ugly and depressing.  I apologized to Suzebel and Bobby told the Toyota truck not to look.

We were barely out of the car when the office gal rushed out and told us we had to park on the street.  Park on the street?  Where?!  There were trucks, vans, fire hydrants, and no parking signs on every square inch of both sides of the entire block!  Park on the street?  Sorry, sweetie, but that's not funny.  She insisted and we pulled out of the smelly lot. 

We got lucky when the tow truck driver who had come to tow Suzebel the day before came out and told us he was pulling out, so we could have his parking spot.  As he pulled away from the cyclone fence next to the shed of one of the suspect businesses, we noticed not one, but three nice, new, bright red "No Parking" signs.  We shrugged our shoulders and guessed that it was unlikely we'd be ticketed in this neighborhood.

The inside was a tad better than the yard, but not by much.  The cramped office needed paint, cleaning and a great deal of organization.  The calendar was a year out of date.  Not a confidence builder.

The young gal who'd just run us out of the lot promptly passed my bill through the bullet proof glass dividing us from her, and asked for $426.  I almost threw up.  "No, that's not my bill.  My bill is only $350."  She did not pretend to care or to extend any degree of 'customer service.'  She said, flatly, "Yeah, this is your bill.  It's $426.  How will you be paying?"

"Well, I want to look at the car and I want to see the old radiator."  It was clear she'd heard this routine dozens, if not hundreds, of times before when she continued the collection process while deflecting my request.  She pushed the bill through the window again.  I pushed it back and stared at her, waiting for her to look at me.  When she did, she gave me her best "you're not kidding anyone, you're going to pay this" look, I shot back a mean look of my own.  She realized I was not going to be deflected by her usual Mickey Mouse, and quickly decided to let us in through the illusive side gate.

I closely scrutinized everything under the hood, even things they'd not worked on.  I made her stand out in that nasty, ugly, smelly impound yard as long as I could.  I was hoping the smell would cling to her clothes and she'd have to go home smelling like that horrible yard.  I was mad at the whole lot of them.  I wanted to slap them all for putting my car in that awful place.  It was weird.  I was angry, defeated, and stressed, and it was just weird.

I started the car to see how it sounded.  It's sounded better, but it was ok.  I let it run for awhile so snotty bitch from the office would have to stand there longer.  While it ran, I checked the glove compartment and the trunk to make sure nothing was missing.  Oh, and I made a point of telling her that's what I was doing.  She's heard it all before.  She just looked away, totally unaffected.

We went back in so I could talk to the man who'd given me the prices over the phone.  I asked again to see the radiator.  He took us out to what passes for them as a shop.  What a friggin' joke.  And what a pathetic mess.  The whole place was like a very bad B movie.  Who am I kidding?  It wasn't anywhere near that nice.  It felt like the kind of place people and cars go into, but never come out of.

We finally located the old radiator and the "mechanic" who'd worked on Suzebel.  They were able to show me a crack on the radiator, but it was not cracked where the top meets the sides as I expected.  There was a three-inch crack in the back, just below the top, near one of the 'spouts' a hose attaches to.  I can't prove it, but it looked like it'd been cracked by force, not by heat expansion.  Bastards.
Live and learn I thought, then quickly realized this is only the second radiator I've had to deal with in all my years of driving.  At that rate, I'm not likely to live long enough to have to worry about another one.  Live and learn just became:  Pay up, sucker.

We went back into the office and continued the pricing discussion.  I showed him the two different handwritten notes I'd made when speaking to him earlier in the day.  I kept asking how it went from two hours labor to three and one-half after the fact.  I asked how the radiator went from $120 to $130, also after the fact, when I knew it only cost about $85.  I got no real explanations for anything, including why on earth a brand new radiator did not come with a cap.  They charged me $6 for a new cap.

Here's the final breakdown:

$130.00  radiator
$  20.00  serpentine belt
$    9.00  new thermostat
$    2.00  gasket for thermostat
$    8.00  second belt
$    6.00  radiator cap
$  76.00  towing
$175.00  3.5 hours labor

$ 426.00  total

Curious that no tax was charged, don't you think??

I gave it my best haggle and complained about everything, but it was no use.  If I ever wanted to see my car again, I'd have to pay it.  I started feeling queasy as I pulled a debit card out of my wallet.  Then I felt pale and clammy; my knees got weak and I had to lean over and brace myself on the counter.  I was felt like I was going to throw up, but didn't.  I managed to get my sunglasses back on before the first tear fell.  It was bad enough they were robbing me, they didn't need to see me cry, too.  They'd have to settle for my Rent Money.

I couldn't wait to get little Suzebel out of that disgusting impound yard.  I actually felt guilty that she'd had to spend the night there.  A couple coats of wax are in order.  I aplologized to her profusely.

I pulled alongside the borrowed Toyota truck and loaded four of the ten bags of alfalfa cubes into the backseat of the car.  I knew Bobby Sue would be nervous about driving in what little traffic there is in that industrial area, so I slowly and carefully described and pointed to where we'd be going.  I assured him I would not pull out anywhere unless he had room to pull out too, but for him to be careful not to rear end me in the process.

We were both a little hungry and decided to chow down and relax for a bit at the nearest McDonald's.  We got safely back onto the freeway, drove two exits towards home, then plopped ourselves down inside a nice, clean, cool, smoke-free McDonald's for almost two hours.  It worked out well.  The fish sandwich made my stomach feel better, the iced tea perked me up, and the time allowed Bobby to feel more comfortable about driving in traffic, especially since rush hour would be over by the time we got back on the road.

We'd dallied long enough.  Time to get back in gear and head home.  One step outside and your eyes start burning again.  Oh man, the smoke from all those fires!  It looked more than twice as thick as it had on our way to rescue the car.  The smoke got even thicker as we drove back through the canyon.  You could barely make out the hillsides that were less than 1/2 mile away from the freeway for several miles.  Yes, my throat was burning.  It still is, even with cough drops.

We stopped to feed Jake before pulling into the driveway and calling it a day.  Jake looked like he'd had a miserable day in the smoke, too.  Ruby was glad to see us, as always, but was not thrilled about being outside in all that smoke.  She much preferred being inside where the water cooler acts as a sort of filter and cuts the smoke considerably.  I guess it acts like a water pipe, filtering most of the crud out of the smoke.  All I know is that it does make a difference.

After unloading the alfalfa cubes and stacking them in the shed, we watched a deep red orb drift down into a hazy sunset.  We could just barely make out the sun, and couldn't actually see any hills, or the horizon, at all, but we knew the sun had gone down when we couldn't see anymore red through the dense haze.

So there you have it:  How My Rent Money Went Up in Smoke. 

I still think the old radiator was fine and that they whacked it with a hammer to create the crack they showed me.  Radiators just don't crack where that crack was.  Besides, there was still water in it when Allen opened it to take a look.  AND it did not boil over or steam out!  Whatever you do, do not get your auto fixed at an impound yard!