“Be sure to check your oil.”

My dad was giving me some final words of advice before I left on my trek
north. My sister’s boyfriend had told me to do the same thing. I assured
them I would.

That was more than three weeks back. I remembered to check it (when the
engine was cool) a few days ago. It didn’t quite come up to the “ADD” line.

So it was off to Kmart to get a couple of quarts at my dad’s suggestion.
“Get some high quality stuff,” he told me on the phone. So I selected two
yellow containers that bore a name I recognized from ads between sporting
events and were more expensive than the other kinds there on the shelf. When
I got home, I dumped them one at a time into a promising hole inside one of
the engine components. Tossing the empty containers into the trash, I
thought, well, that’s that.

This morning, my engine wouldn’t start. The starter just made an obscene
clicking noise whenever I turned the key. “Okay, God, what are you trying to
tell me,” I asked as I returned into the house. Calling my employer to tell
him I’d be late, I looked in vain for some keys to the other two cars in the
circular driveway. The other occupants of this house had left on their
motorcycles already. I guess they’d taken their keys with them, because I
couldn’t find any with which to try to jump my car off of their’s. So for
the second time in less than two weeks, I called AAA. I think I even talked
to the same operator on the other end of the line. Veronica, her name was.
She was nice, even if she wasn’t the same one. All but called me “hon” as
she promised a tow would be on the way.

I sat out on the front porch and read the paper while waiting for the truck
to arrive, which it did as soon as I ducked inside to use the bathroom.
Outside, a young man in drooping black jeans, a teal t-shirt, and blond Van
Dyke was untangling a pair of jumper cables. He didn’t respond when I
greeted him, just silently hooked the clamps up to my battery and then softly
told me to start it up. The engine simply clicked all the more obscenely.
The insecure tow truck operator frowned at the battery and adjusted the
clamps, fooled with the wires, poked around. I stared and frowned at the
engine too, not because I thought I might find something wrong but because
there really wasn’t anything else to look at without looking foolish.
Something caught my eye, however. A gaping hole, the same hole I’d dumped
two quarts of oil into, Doh! the same hole I’d forgotten to put the top back
onto! Fortunately for me, the lid was attached to the car. I screwed it
back on and then proceeded to rediculously check my oil as Mr. Insecurity
fooled with more wires. I was way above the “SAFE” line.

After several more unsuccessful tries, Insecurity gave up. “Um, it may be
the starter,” he suggested meekly. I asked him if he could take it to
Llyellyns, the same place that fixed my tire last week. He assented. Then
he pushed my car out into the street so he could back up to hook it up to his
rig. The “damage free” truck lowered a system of bars that opened, wrapped
around my front tires, and locked into place like some spaceship satellite
retrieval device. I hopped into the front seat with him, and we barreled off
down the road.

“There it is,” I pointed, as we zipped past Llyellyns after riding in silence
for several minutes. Insecurity slowly breaked, turned around at the next
median crossing, and headed back to the garage. We got out and went up to a
couple of guys intently discussing something in front of a car with an open
hood. My tow truck driver didn’t seem bold enough to break into the
conversation, so when one of the fellows, a guy with RayBan (ray-band?) like
sunglasses turned around and came close to acknowledging our existence, I
blurted out, “I think we’ve got a problem with the starter.”

Insecurity moved the car into an empty spot and unhooked it. Then he
gallantly, if meekly, waited till RayBan made his way over to have a look.
They curtly discussed the nature of batteries and starters while RayBan
hooked the battery up to a handheld measuring device of some sort and
declared, “This battery is dead!”

I thought Insecurity would get me to sign something or other, but he just
eventually hopped into his truck and drove off. I waved thank you and smiled
gratefully. His dimples appeared from beyond the Van Dyke as he waved shyly
back. RayBan returned from the garage with a new battery, which, when hooked
up to my car, started it right up. “I think we can charge your battery back
up,” RayBan gave his prognosis, “We’ll clean the corrosion off of the heads
too. That’ll drain a battery.” I waited in the office and read (I’d brought
a book this time instead of having to flip through auto magazines). Finally,
RayBan reappeared behind the counter, “All done! That’ll be fifteen bucks.”
He explained to me as I handed him my credit card that I might just have to
get a new battery if the charge didn’t hold. “The heat is real bad on ’em.”
—
In other news, my employer informed me today that I am working for the
company as a “subcontractor” since otherwise this nonprofit organization
would have to pay taxes. “So now you’ll get paid!”

I haven’t really had any expenses. My lodging is provided for, people keep
feeding me. But now I’ll have money for the next time my car decides to
break down. Or if I need more oil.