Sign on the Dotty Line

On Friday morning I got up, as usual, in the pitch dark (for I have to be at work by the ungodly hour of 6:45 a.m.), snuffled around, drank some juice, performed the customary ablutions, then headed out to the parking lot, pleased with myself for being a bit ahead of schedule, got into my car, buckled up, and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing. Lights, various features that ding and bleat – all working – but not a dicky bird from the engine. Smooth silence.

I walked back up to my apartment and paced around the living room three times, telling myself that this ritual would have the same power as hitting the REPLAY button on a remote control. Descended again and once more turned the key. More smooth silence and a polite, useless click.

I fished the owner’s manual out of the glove compartment for the first time and managed to match a yellow symbol on the dashboard with a picture in the manual. Something was wrong with my electronic system.

I’ve been paying a monthly fee for comprehensive emergency assistance; now was the time to discover if the promised services would be delivered. I dialled a complicated number and got one Jean-Francois on the line. He proved to be hearteningly efficient. (Yes, I have a licence to invent words.)

As I awaited the tow truck, my thoughts flitted like bats in the dusk. My car is less than a year old and has no excuse for misbehaviour. The whole reason I own it is to avoid just this sort of situation. When my husband, Piglet, was alive, we always had elderly, eccentric vehicles because he knew how to fix them. I have no mechanical skills whatsoever.

Visions of Vehicles Past, three of them in particular, flashed before me. At 17, I bought my first car, a 1962 Acadian, from a family I babysat for – my friends called it the Fweepmobile. I very nearly killed it within days of taking ownership. It sputtered to a halt one Friday evening and I shrewdly deduced that I’d misread the gauge and run out of gas. I approached the nearest house and begged the use of the phone to call my service station who dispatched a young man to rescue me. Once he’d poured $1.50 worth of black gold into the tank (enough for a week in those halcyon days), he fired up the Fweepster, then frowned.

“You need oil, too,” he said.

“How do you know?” I inquired, eager to learn more about the Mysteries of the Automobile.

“See this red light? When it comes on, it means you’re very low on oil.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “It’s been flashing at me for several days now! I wondered what it meant!”

His expression suggested I ought to be fitted for a strait jacket immediately but he patiently explained how, without oil, my engine could seize and thus be destroyed, added a quart of 40-weight, and told me I could pay on my next visit to Neighbourhood Gas Grab. Those days were, indeed, halcyon.

Shy Violet, ringing in at $200, was a white, rounded sort of vehicle whose exact provenance I forget. She ran as sweetly as a child’s dream of summer as long as it was raining. Fortunately, it rains a lot in Victoria because the faintest ray of sunshine caused her rear wheels to lock, inexorably, while she blushed coyly in the sudden brighter light. Nothing could convince her to loosen her death-grip on the pavement except copious streams of water over the back tires. After the third time I was forced to knock on a stranger’s door and ask to borrow the family garden hose, we consigned Shy Violet to the Great Scrap Heap in the Sky with few regrets. She’s chiefly remembered as the only car we ever had that even Piglet couldn’t fix.

We paid a mere $100 for The Hulk, a rusted-out hatchback whose previous owner worked for the Coast Guard. Constant exposure to salt spray had dissolved most of The Hulk’s body. Piglet bought a few cases of beer and summoned some friends. They set to work with duct tape and spray paint and soon The Hulk looked almost presentable. It turned out the starter didn’t work but Piglet taught me how to insert a paring knife into the depths of the engine and it was no longer a problem as long as I remembered to put the gear shift in neutral before I inserted the knife. The Hulk’s happy career came to an end nearly two years later by which time the floor boards had nearly vanished and I discovered I didn’t have the stamina of Wilma Flintstone.

Now, as I shivered in the pre-dawn chill awaiting rescue, I looked with contempt at my nearly new car. Wimp, I thought.

The tow truck rumbled into the parking lot. Tow Truck Guy got out, looking bored and competent as Tow Truck Guys always do. I proudly showed him the picture in the manual and the matching light on the dashboard. He lowered himself into the car, adjusted the seat, turned the key in the ignition and – it started! – while I gaped, fish-like.

“Did you have the clutch pushed down all the way?” he asked.

“Of course!” I cried indignantly. Did he think I was a total moron? “I’ve been driving the car for nearly a year and never had a problem before!”

Truly, I don’t know why the car decided to start. Do these guys have special rays darting from their eyeballs?

“I’ll need you to sign here.” Tow Truck Guy handed me a pen and a metal clipboard.

I.M.N. Idiot, I wrote. With a flourish.