August 13, 2014--Midcoast: Auto Repair Purgatory

This will be brief because I spent most of yesterday in car repair purgatory and ran out of time and energy for blogging.

Our car was making a put-put sound that concerned me. At breakfast I described it to my boating friend Stan who knows a lot about cars and engines. When he looked at me quizzically, I said, "Like the sound of a boat. A Put-Put."

I thought that might amuse him, but he was having one of his grumpy mornings and it annoyed him because he felt I was casting aspersions on boats in general, even though I meant a small, outboard motor boat. A Put-Put. Not his boat which emits a macho roar when underway.

Stan said this wasn't Car Talk where callers tell the Tappet Brothers how their cars sound and that helps them diagnose the problem over the radio. And with that, he left the diner in a bit of a huff-huff before I could draw on his mechanical expertise.

Driving over to the VW dealer in Brunswick I was thinking there was something seriously wrong and that to repair it they'd have to drop the engine. In my over-heated imagination I was looking at a four-figure bill. Anything requiring dropping the engine, I fretted, runs into the thousands.

The good news: after checking out the car they told me that the part would cost just $10 and for the labor it would take "only" two to three hours.

The bad news: this would not fix the put-put but the transmission which was leaking.

"The transmission? When did that happen?" I was close to screaming.

"Can't tell. All I know is that the transmission housing is wet all over. And, sorry," the service manager informed me, avoiding the sound effects, "but that won't take care of what's concerning you."

I interrupted to say, it wasn't the transmission that had been worrying me but now it was, even more than the "you-know-what."

"Well for that--the you-know-what--I'm afraid you need two new tires."

"What? For the put-put? I bought new tires, four of them, just two years ago."

Understanding, he nodded, "It's all the pot holes up here. They chew up tires. The bottom line still is that you need at least two. The ones on the rear are pretty chopped and that's what's making the," he lowered his voice, "put-put."

"What can I say," I said. "The car gods will do with me, with it, with them whatever they want. At least they won't have to drop the engine to mount the new tires. And considering the new transmission expense, I'll go to my tire dealer and have them replace the two."

"Okey dokey."

They must train them to be chipper, I thought. Like dentists.

"The good news," he said, "is the $10 part. The bad news," he clearly liked the good-news-bad-news business, "The bad news is that we have to order it and it won't be here until next Tuesday. In the meantime, you'll be fine. We'll top off the transmission fluid--like I said--it's leaking and . . ."

"I know. I know. The good news is all it needs is a $10 part. To tell you the truth, I'd feel better if it needed a $100 part. Then at least it would make sense to have to drop the engine. To drop it to install a cheap part seems like an extravagance."

"We'll try to avoid having to do that."

"That?"

"Drop the engine."

Later that day I went over to my tire place and had them order two new Michelins to match the other two they sold me two years ago.

"It was actually three years ago, sir," the tire manager corrected me. When I looked at him skeptically he pointed to the screen and said, "I have it right here in the computer. You put almost 45,000 miles on those babies. So to need only two, considering the roads 'round here, is not that bad."

The bad news again, I thought, or was it the good news? "Though I'd recommend your getting four."

Of course. Why not five? I probably could use a new spare even though I never used it. Just being driven around in the trunk for 45,000 miles would wear out a spare.

"Whatever," I said, fully beaten down.

Two days later when I returned to the tire dealer, worrying all the way about the transmission fluid hemorrhaging through the housing, the tires were there and in an hour were balanced, installed, and the wheels were aligned.

"Good you could do the alignment without having to drop . . ." I stopped myself from concluding the thought. Rona's jabbing me in the ribs helped.

And then back at the VW service yesterday, with the $10 part in hand, they gave us a loaner--"Why don't the two of you drive over to Frosty's. It's early and they should still have a selection of their donuts left. I love their glazed twists."

"They're his favorites," Rona said, "Though I like the chocolate cream myself."

"How long did you say it will take?" I asked, all business, though the thought of a couple of twists was appealing.

"I'll call in a couple of hours to let you know how things are going. In the meantime, have fun in Brunswick."

Forsty's actually had a fullish assortment of their donuts left and by the third one, with sugar and caffeine rushing through my system, I was thinking more about having fun then what might be going on back at VW. Coffee was more on my mind than transmission fluid.

"I wonder why it costs so much?" I said under my breath, contradicting what I just said about being focused on fun.

"Anything made from oil," Rona said, "costs a fortune. Look at what's happening with Russia and the Middle East."

"You had to remind me of that? Here I was trying to have fun and . . ."

"You're the one who muttered about why it costs so much. And you weren't talking about donuts."

"Touché," I said, trying to sound as bouncy as the VW service manager, "Let's go antiquing."

Two hours later, antiqued-out, we still hadn't heard from VW.

"Maybe call them?" I suggested to Rona.

She dialed them up. "What? What are you saying?" Now she was the one sounding all agitated. "The axel bolt? What does the axel have to do with the transmission? And why am I asking you that? I don't even know what a transmission does. For all I know it's connected to the axel and . . ."

"And when you dropped the engine," I shouted as a non sequitur into Rona's cell phone, which she promptly yanked away from me.

"OK. We'll be there in 15, 20 minutes. Then you'll explain everything." She snapped the phone shut.

Driving over, I said we needed to be ready for sticker shock. Rona had reported that when the mechanic did whatever needed to be done to the axel bolt the "thread came off with the bolt."

"Which means they'll probably have to replace the entire transmission housing."

"What's that?"

"I have no idea," I confessed. "It's the thing they told us was wet from whatever was leaking. I'm just assuming that . . ."

"You assumed they'd have to drop the engine to fix the tires. So what do you know?"

"Just that at least they gave us a brand new car for a loaner. Last time they gave us a clunker. Since it will take a week to get the new transmission parts and three days labor to install them, at least we'll have a good car to drive around in."

"Only three days of labor? I would have thought no less than five." Rona was making fun of me.

"Could be," I said, more than half serious.

When we got back to VW Rona noticed a car just like ours being washed. "They wouldn't be washing it," I said, "They told you they still have a lot of work to do to fix it. It must be one just like ours. Like you said, they'll be keeping ours a week or more and wouldn't be washing it until they replace the transmission."

"But that's a gray Passat wagon with New York plates--E*U*F* . . ."

"That must be us!" I almost jumped for joy. "Somehow while we were driving over they must have finished it."

"Or jiggered it together temporally so they can get their loaner back. I'm not driving around for a week with a patched-together car."

"I'm with you," I said. "Let's go inside and see what's-what."

What-was-what is that somehow the mechanic, in the last 15 minutes, figured out how to repair it permanently, assuming anything having to do with cars is permanent.

Not trusting, Rona said, "You're not sending us off with a car that's not fixed properly, are you?"

The manager leaned forward across the counter and whispered, "We'd never do that. It would be illegal. And you could sue VW for a fortune. And win," he winked, as if he was offering to represent us in a slam-dunk liability lawsuit.

"And the best thing," he said to me, now pulled back up to his full height, "the best thing is we didn't even need to drop the engine."

He and Rona rocked with laughter. They thought that was about the funniest thing they had heard all week.

The bill came to $248, ten dollars of it for the part. The rest labor. Not bad news.

July 7, 2014--Midcoast: Free Air

The only place in the area, or, these days, maybe anywhere, where you can get air for your car tires without paying for it is in New Harbor at Hanna's gas station and general store.

They don't have one of those machines that you have to feed with quarters to get five minutes of metered compressed air. Five minutes being barely enough time to get to all four tires, check their pressure, and then inflate them to the manufacturer's suggested specs.

Actually, that's not enough time unless you have someone with you to assist in the process. Otherwise, you'd better have another 75 cents ready.

So Rona and I approach tire checks, where you have to pay for air, as a team.

We pull up to the hose wrapped around one of those compressors or lying in a pool of spilled oil and Rona, pit-crew style, races around the car taking off all four valve caps. I follow right behind with my pressure tester and if any tire has below 35 pounds of pressure she leaves the cap off indicating it needs air.

We then get the pump going by inserting three quarters and I hurry to complete my part of the team's work--pumping in a few bursts of air (usually too much), letting the excess out (again usually too much), hoping to get it all done before the air pump kicks off.

Half the time I do fine and half the time I don't, which causes more than a little tension between us since, at this time in my life, Rona has taken to suggesting that we switch roles--I would remove the caps and she would do the tire topping-off. But, you know how it is--about this there's a genetic man-woman thing. OK, it's cultural. And so we do the best we can to maintain harmony and I try to ignore the grumbling in the background.

Generally all four tires need air. Driving the kind of broken roads that are common here--including right up to our house--causes air to leak out so invariably tire pressures range from 30 to 32 pounds per square inch. Low enough to lead to uneven tire wear and lower miles per gallon. Both to be avoided.

So we're willing to shell out the 75 cents if we can't get to Hanna's.

But Hanna's is our go-to place when in the area.

Free Air the sign above the hose says that dangles casually from the side of Hanna's general store where you can also get basic groceries, cold and hot drinks, fishing tackle, and even guns and ammo.

I can go there on my own as I did yesterday to check out the tire situation without having to race from tire to tire; or, if we go together, I can take care of the tires while Rona roams around inside, maybe buying a bottle of water or checking out who's buying ammo this time of year, months before hunting season. I've suggested that while doing that she doesn't do too much staring.

"'Bout the only thing that's still free these days," the other day said a grizzled man of about 80 as I was stooped beside the right front tire, trying to get the pressure to exactly 35 pounds.

In truth, I'd prefer Rona didn't know that working at ground level for me has become a bit of a problem--the getting up part--so I just grunted in reply, wanting to get done quickly and move on the the right rear, just where it seemed he had settled in.

"Nice of 'em Hannas to let you get it for free. Like I've been sayin' for more years than I'd like to count, the next thing you know they'll tax the air we breathe. Taxin' everything else. So why not air? We gotta pay for water. It used to be free. They sell it in bottles inside." He waved contemptuously toward the store, "Costs 'bout as much as a Coke. But it's just plain water. And if you get town water they make you pay for that too. They get it for free so I don't see chargin' us for it."

By then, still not saying anything, I was working on the right rear tire. Its pressure had dipped to 31 and after the first pulse of air I pumped in it shot up to 37. I let some out and it plunged back down to 33. Then up to 36, which I felt was close enough. So, holding onto the car, I struggled to get up and moved around it to the left rear.  He followed me, shuffling on his one good leg.

I can't move around much better than him, I muttered to myself. And he's a lot older than me. I was not having a good time and wanted to shake him off by pretending to ignore him.

"Tell you the truth I don't have much good to say 'bout most everything these days. You see things any different?" He was trying to draw me in, but, not wanting to, I continued to stare at my pressure gauge.

"Now they want to take our freedom away. What-id we fight all 'em wars for?" He was no longer waiting for a response. He was on a roll. "Lost my kid brother in Nam and then a nephew three years ago in I-raq. That they have money for. Git it from them Chinese 'cause we've 'bout run out. Next thing you know we'll be fightin' 'em again. Like I say, we shoulda finished 'em off in Korea when we had the chance. That was my war. My unit was sent all the way up by that Yalu River. In a winter worse than the one we had here last winter. Froze half my toes of and saw six a my buddies shot up. I still have handful of Chinese shell casing in my chest. Like my son says, if I ever was to try to get on an airplane I'd set off all sorts of sirens. They'd think I'm one of them terrorists. Maybe I'll do that one day, just for the heck of it, to remind everyone what we boys in the service went through. Sheeeet."

He liked that and laughed to himself.

By then Rona was back outside and had walked over toward him. She had overheard his story. "Sorry to learn about your brother and nephew. But," she said with understandable hesitation, "in my view we shouldn't have been involved in either of those wars. What a . . ."

I cleared my throat loud enough for her to hear as a signal that this was not a good place to go.

"Can't say I disagree with that ma'am. We got 'nouh problems right here in the U. S. of A.--even in this town--not to be stickin' our noses into other people's business. Never did them or us no good."

"I'm inclined that way myself," Rona nodded. "We should take care of our own and . . ."

"Sometimes," he said, "takin' care of our own means we gotta fight for what we believe in."

"I'm OK with that but only when we really do have to fight and have tried everything else we could to solve our problems without fighting. I'm no pacifist but . . ."

"Sounds then like maybe we're on the same wavelength."

He laughed toothlessly, looking down at me. "How's that fella of yours doing with his tires?"

"I'm just about done," I said still crouching at the left front. I try to get the exact pressure in the front two. For safety's sake. But I'm having trouble with this one. I can't get it to 35."

"Good thing," he said, "they still got free air here. So you can take all the time you want." He continued laughing while he turned and limped toward the store.

"I'm gonna get me some water," he said over his shoulder, "There's a cooler in the back where they don't charge nothin' for it."