Hello loyal readers. The mighty Dolomite is back in style this month with a harrowing tale of intrigue and mystery. My car, the indispensable Dolomobile (made in Korea with real aluminum!) had a near death experience (without me drinking, to boot). Well, maybe it is not the most intriguing thing you have heard. I found it intriguing, only because I learned a lesson about cars. However, it certainly was a mystery to me, especially since I don't know a damn thing about cars.
Before I tell the story, let me make one thing clear: I love driving. I do not mean a drive along the country, though that is very relaxing. I do not mean drag racing, since I only have a four-cylinder engine. I just mean driving. I love the idea of getting in a car, pumping some heavy metal (Maiden, Metallica, Slipknot, Mudvayne, etc.), and driving to anywhere. It is relaxing and gets me out of my apartment for a few hours. I cannot go a day without at least driving my car around the block. Keep this in mind while reading this little story.
Friday afternoon, I was driving along to up one of the main thoroughfares of my fair city. I stopped at a light near our mall when my car began to shudder like a teenager finding a mature porn site on the Internet. When the light changed green, I tried to go forward. The Dolomobile would not respond. After what felt like a horrible kick, the car lurched forward. As I stepped on the gas, I found that the engine would rev up and the speedometer would go absolutely nowhere, much like the car itself. Finally, the car kicked again and I moved forward at a heady 20 mph. The more I stepped on the gas, the more the engine sounded like bubble wrap caught under a stampede of elephants. Embarrassed, I pulled into the turning lane and parked in a lot behind a Barnes & Noble. Then I popped the hood.
Now, I told you before that I am not a car guy. I doubt I could tell you the specs of a '74 Mustang Convertible, let alone my car. Nonetheless, I peeked under the hood just in case. Yep, right in front of me was my engine. And I also had the battery in there and some various fluid tanks. So, considering how little I knew of what to do, I check the fluids. Washer fluid was a little low. Power steering fluid was nearly out. Coolant was good though. Then I had only one other knob to check. It was pretty dirty and had what looked like Asian writing on it. Well, it was made in Korea, was all I thought as I turned the knob. Then I screeched in pain as brown liquid burned my hand as it shot out of the steaming hot pipe. I turned the knob back and cursed like a sailor. After apologizing to a nearby elderly woman, I wiped the dirt off of the knob. It was then that the Korean mumbo-jumbo became plain English. It read, "Do not open if engine is warm." Car twenty, Dolomite zero.
After looking at the rest of the engine (without touching anything else out of fear of burning myself again), I started the car back up. Once again, it revved, lurched, and popped as I struggled to the end of the lot. Twenty minutes and several near accidents later, I was home and depressed. I made an appointment with a mechanic, whose best impression of what to do with the car was, "Don't drive it nowhere, it could be dangerous." Thank you Hubert J. Carsmith, I never would have thought of that one! When asked what he thought it might be, his reply was simple: "Bring it in so I can take a look at it." Good, I won't drive it anywhere, so I guess I just hull it on up to the garage by carrying it. Then again, it is mostly aluminum foil painted red!
The whole weekend is a blur. Worried that it might be my transmission of engine altogether, I believe that I will not be able to pay for the repairs. This would leave me without a car, which would leave me without a way to drive anywhere. Which would leave me very depressed. So, like anyone worried about a future bill, I went out and bought several bottles of liquor at the Wine & Spirits down the block from the apartment. I made several Schnapps cocktails that night. While that might not seem manly or alcoholic, each cocktail only had schnapps in it had about eight different flavors at that. By the end of the weekend, I had consumed nearly a hundred dollars of alcohol, most of which was schnapps. I will miss my liver.
Tuesday comes around and I find myself with the horrible task of waiting for the call. I put the car in the garage at eight a.m. after one of the scariest drives in my life. I decided to put it in for an inspection while I was at it, considering how it was that time of year. I laid on the couch, staring at my dog, wondering how great life would be if I was simple enough to eat my own feces and did not have opposable thumbs. I nearly cried. I'll admit it. I love my car and I was scared she was going to die on me. Around ten, I get a call from the shop telling me that they have an idea of what to do. With the inspection repairs, it was going to cost around $250. Much better than the thousand or so I dreaded while intoxicated. The problem was that they had no idea if this was going to work or not. But, it should give them a better idea of what to do from there. I agreed. I had no choice.
Halfway through a bottle of Jack Daniels (it was a small bottle), I got another phone call. It was the mechanics again. They told me they found the problem. There was a cracked shaft and valve in my engine. The repairs would cost an additional hundred and fifty dollars, but that would be it. They then told me that there would be some bad news. I hardly cared about the bad news. I was elated that I would soon be driving my beloved vehicle again. I dreamed of going anywhere. I had to be outside of a walled room. I felt enclosed and needed to get away from my responsibilities. And the cost was still very much in my price range. Then they told me the bad news: They did not have the parts needed. It would take three days for it to be delivered. Dammit!
Dolomite