Getting My Fix

Let's be clear from the outset: this is not a post about narcotics. Or pizza. (Pizza actually is a narcotic, but that will be our little secret. OK? No need to bring the DEA into this.) 

This is a post about the fast-disappearing notion of having things fixed.

More specifically, this is a post about attempting to have things fixed. Things like cars. Garage doors. And telephones. The theoretically simple act of getting things done before your to-do list stretches to the moon and back.

Let me start with my car. Like me, it's an older model with considerable mileage.

I can't afford a new car, and the used ones which fit my slender budget are older models with lots of miles—and like I said, I already have one of those. So I keep it and fix it. It's a slow-motion restoration that neither my insurance company or the concours at Pebble Beach will ever recognize.

But over the past year, the fix part has become remarkably difficult. Routine things like repairing a parasitic amp draw, replacing a serpentine belt, a timing belt and redoing the brakes seemingly present local repair shops with the mechanical equivalent of solving the unrest in Syria. 

Or developing a plan for affordable health care.

It's like owing a Ferrari in Afghanistan. I imagine the mechanics whispering and pointing as they gather 'round to eyeball the wonder that is my made in Japan exotic (which is incidentally one of the best-selling cars in the United States and has been for decades).

Last winter, a parasitic amp draw cost me a job interview, two unscheduled days off and the howling derision of my employer. The shop I brought it to failed to diagnose the problem not once, but twice. I suppose you could say what they lacked in ability they made up for in consistency.

As a bonus, I not only received two repair bills (which doubtlessly covered the two “free” tows) and  a door panel the mechanic had confused with a boot wipe, but an unrepaired car which continued to threaten not to start at the most inopportune times.

Thankfully, the remainder of the winter was as mild as Minnesota salsa.

Like thousands of Americans, I celebrate the arrival of spring by replacing my serpentine belt. After settling the bill and bringing the car home, I noticed a strange clicking sound. I called the shop and was advised it would disappear as the belt “loosened up”.

A day later, they were proven correct.

The clicking noise disappeared as the belt loosened up sufficiently to remove itself from the network of wheels and pulleys on which it was deigned to travel. The shop paid for the subsequent tow and belt replacement, so it wasn't the exercise in abject hopelessness the twin visits to the previous garage had been.

A month later, I became aware that whenever I had to brake my car was bathed in the grinding, metallic music that is worn brake pads. Armed with a coupon, I brought my car to a third facility for still-more maintenance. All four brakes required attention, but many hundreds of dollars later the car at least stopped quietly and with certainty.

I especially liked the quiet part.

After several unsatisfying, late-summer flirtations with several used cars in the area, I decided to renew my vows with my long-term vehicular spouse. As a renew-your-wedding-vows gift, I decided to have my beloved's timing belt replaced.

As it happened, the shop that had erred with the serpentine belt was offering a special, and since a passenger-side power window regulator, struts and the second serpentine belt had been installed to perfection, I decided to forgive and forget.

Which is the biggest reason I'm currently stockpiling Aricept.

After paying yet-another robust bill and bringing my four-wheeled wife home, I was crestfallen when the now-familiar sounds of mechanical angst hit my ears. Too fearful of incurring a murder one charge to return to the shop, I instead visited the local dealership.

They confirmed my suspicions that the belt was too tight, and for one-hundred-twenty dollars and change corrected the error. (And if you're wondering—no, I'm not buying the guilty garage a box of belt-tension gauges for Christmas.)

I admit to not calling the Illinois Attorney General's office or scouring the walls of these facilities for ASE certification prior to my visits. But all are established shops with good reputations.

In all fairness, I can imagine what it's like working on older cars. The maddening array of connectors and fasteners, brittle plastic and rusted-on bolts alone would be enough to make me certifiable. Not to mention the ocean of proprietary designs and procedures each manufacturer unwittingly builds into their cars. 

I'm sure it is tougher than a two-dollar steak. 

But since these businesses advertise and market themselves as repair shops, is it not entirely reasonable of me to expect a repair in exchange for my hard-earned buckage?

Of course it is.

Alas, in a town like mine there a finite number of garages. And screaming at the mechanic reminds me of the guy who complained to the chef about his last meal. Unless you're in the kitchen supervising the preparation, there are just too many avenues for retaliation.

It's best to just blog about it. That and save for a new car as you beseech an uncaring god that the intermittent noise from the driver's side front wheel exists only in your imagination.

The Trouble with Siblings

Someone once said that while you can choose your friends, fate relieves us of that responsibility when it comes to siblings. They are assigned, like social security numbers, college roommates and eye color.

I was assigned three—two sisters and a brother. All of them are younger, which I suppose makes me the oldest. For the most part, I enjoy good relationships with them—except one. A sister. She and I have problems. Big problems.

My sister is a cornucopia of irritating personality traits. She loves the word ‘we’. She uses it to confer upon herself some kind of imaginary spokesman status, so when she issues one of her declarations it isn’t just her opinion, but the shared conclusion of a group. This coalition is usually whatever family members, friends, relatives, etc. aren’t in the room.

My sister is also prone to exaggeration. No one is ever upset, they’re PISSED OFF! My sister is all capital letters and exclamation points. She is also a fire-starter. And she needs lots of attention, which probably goes a long way in explaining her other traits.

She likes nothing better than saying something outrageous and having every head in the room turn towards her.

The same person who refused to be her sister’s bridesmaid because it would entail the wearing of a dress (an act which would reduce her to a cultural stereotype) is the same person who endlessly criticizes me when my hair is long because I don’t, in her words, “look masculine and professional.”

Hmmm. Let me think about that one.

She spins like a campaign manager. She is a commitment phobe. And she is cheap cheap cheap cheap cheap. (And it’s not ornithology of which I speak.) It’s best to take her with a salt mine or two. And to remember she needs to be filtered, translated and above all, managed. And it is exhausting.

Did I mention she is hyperactive with traces of OCD and ADD?

Like I said, we have problems.

When my parents sold our childhood home several years ago, I was unable to help with the move as I had recently lost a job and was working a temporary one which allowed no time off. Despite the gaggle of family, in-laws and professional movers, it was my sister’s opinion that my absence made the move three or four times as difficult as it needed to be.

Upon returning home, she called me and vented. And vented. And vented. She used the word ‘we’. She exaggerated. She spun.

A bit shaken, I called home. Imagine my surprise when no one was even remotely irritated by my absence.

I was now angry as well. I had seen this move coming. I had spent time on three earlier trips home helping my folks go through closets and crawlspaces and garage rafters, a claim my finger-pointing sister couldn’t make. I wrote her a long letter, with copies sent to my siblings to prevent exaggeration and spin and myth-making.

It stopped her in her tracks.

Then there was my move from New Mexico last fall. My sister volunteered to come down, ostensibly to help my girlfriend and I. That it also meant a free vacation and a free trip home were only convenient asides.

I was hesitant to accept, but an injury to my girlfriend’s lower-back precluded long stretches behind the wheel, and the discovery that there is absolutely no way one driver can operate three vehicles simultaneously was tough to ignore. With the voice of experience screaming “No! No! No!” I accepted her offer.

We agreed that after arriving she would first sightsee and then embark on a ten-day camping trip while my girlfriend and I finalized details of the move. My sister would return to help with packing, loading the truck and the drive east.

Wanting to make the leap of faith that might repair our fractured relationship, I loaned her my car for the camping trip. This despite knowing she and I view cars about as differently as it is possible for two people to view them.

For my sister, they are maintenance-free appliances which invariably become dented and scratched and are then discarded. I do silly things like change the oil and flush the radiator and never, ever park next to pick-up trucks and vehicles likely to contain great numbers of children and distracted parents.

With assurances that she would treat my car as I did, she set off for the Gila National Forest. I didn’t drive my car again until after arriving in Milwaukee. When I did, it was clear my car wasn’t in the same condition it was when it left New Mexico. The right front wheel pinged when I accelerated. The driver’s side window was off-track and didn’t close completely. And the rear bumper was covered with scratches.

This after she bailed-out early because the cross-country move wasn’t proving to be as fun as she thought it would be. Which is another thing about my sister. She can’t tolerate anything that isn’t fun. If it’s not a ride on a Tilt-a-whirl, sis has problems with it.

For my part, I confess that leaving New Mexico just as the nation’s economy was having a melt-down didn’t have me doing cartwheels and handsprings.

But no fun? Me? Didn’t you read my last post? OK—kidding.

Fast forward to August. My sister is visiting—again. I make an obligatory appearance. Like Obama and his fantasy of bipartisanship, hope springs eternal. (I am nothing if not the dutiful son/brother/employee.)

There are lots of people there. I am thankful for this because they act as buffers which neutralize my sister. Later, after everyone else has gone, my immediate family asks me how I’m doing.

I tell them about the job market. I tell them applying for work is like playing the lottery, with odds that are only a little better. I tell them how I waited in line for an hour and-a-half to submit an application for a job as a supermarket cashier.

I don’t tell them about the part-time temporary job that would have me knocking on doors in the most-dangerous neighborhoods in Milwaukee (with a shiny new laptop in tow), doing follow-up interviews for a government study. I tell them it is ugly out there. U-G-L-Y.

My sister, whom I haven’t spoken to since December, asks me when I’ll be able to repay the $109.00 she mistakenly charged to her credit card during the move. (My girlfriend and I had agreed to pick-up her lodgings and gas during the trip east.)

I tell her that was also the first question out of her mouth in December, and that nothing has changed. I again tell her that when I have money that isn’t needed for rent, utilities, gasoline and food, she will be paid. I ask when would be a good time to talk. She says there isn’t one.

I say goodnight and leave.

The news that the $109.00 went to the repair of my car window will be met with derision and the kind of screeching only a personality like my sister's could create.

The fact that I didn’t opt for the $500.00 dealership repair (which would mean she owed me money) but instead found a salvage yard with the appropriate regulator and had it installed for less than half that (which means I owe her ten-dollars and change) will be completely ignored.

My sister has adopted the belief that we are responsible for everything that happens to us. There are no accidents. No misfortune. No bad luck. Only good and bad choices. She sees other people’s lives in perfect hindsight, and freely dispenses what the work world calls “feedback”.

She doesn’t know it, but she would adore The Secret. She’d likely set it cover-out on a high shelf and light votive candles on either side of it.

And I have come to agree with her. It is about good and bad choices. And at long last I understand that continuing this relationship is a very bad choice. Our relationship requires vast amounts of effort with only brittle co-existence to show for it. It’s sad and it hurts, but what is, is.

Yeah, it’s all about the choices.