I had just visited two old friends. What a delightful time! Both of them were nearing 80, in the twilight of their years, with the end looming nearer for them to say nothing about me. They were beaming and waving as I pulled out of their driveway. I rolled down my car’s window to say my final goodbye when the drive motor inside the door wheezed and clunked. A quick reversal of the up/down button sent my door’s window down with a thud! The night air rushed in as I sat there with a sheepish grin. Great. A broken cable, a noisy rattle, and I was just 1100 miles and 24 thunderstorms from home with no protection from the potential onslaught from the elements.
Fast forward. It’s amazing how any repair job nowadays costs 80 percent of your car’s market value. To avoid a $500 repair job, I fabricated a hasty patch job, and topped it off with duct tape to hold the door parts together. In only half a day I was limping southward and on my way as the first of many thunderstorms began to beat against said duct tape and assorted door parts.
I readily admit to a low aptitude for things mechanical. Especially when it comes to the interior of an American made automobile door. It is a jungle of frightening proportions. Of all the sights concocted by man or beast none compares to this mish mesh of Rube Goldberg confabulations. Touch any part and it dislodges 12 others. It’s amazing how every law of physics must be brought into play to raise and lower a piece of glass 15 inches. Archimedes would drown in his bath tub to see such a sight. But by god I had called upon my internet skills, and I had found a $77 replacement part that Chrysler Corporation had not factored into their calculus of how to keep me in a state of perpetual poverty.
Four days later and just 14 trips to Lowes, and I had the final 3 rubber bands in place. With the help of a neighbor, my wife, and a new set of tools complete with box cutters and electrician’s tape, and I was down to my final 2 screws. The seven other parts that lay there had no visible place to return to. And I could easily reach out through my open window from inside my car to open the door. The interior handle somehow got jammed and was no longer operable. But—hey—with 108,000 miles on this baby, what could I expect…perfection?
The freaking screws were the wrong size. How could that be? Son of a bitch! I climbed out of the car through the passenger’s side, unlatched the four bungee cords that criss-crossed over the gear shift and along the a/c ductwork, and climbed out of the car. I searched my spare parts kit that had stood by faithfully in my garage of the past 14 years. It contained enough screws to sink a battle ship, but not one that fit into my car door. I had to buy 3 sets of screws at Lowe’s in containers of 400 each to be certain that I had the right size for the remaining two holes. Fortunately, there was enough room in the storage compartments for those additional spares.
It was 2 A.M. and sweat was pouring from my brow. The last of 7 plastic connectors lay on the garage floor—broken, with no salvageable value. It was time to call it a day, or a night, as the case may be. The interior lights needed to be shut off in order to save the life left in the battery. But this was an easy task. All I had to do was disconnect the car battery to save it for another day.
Fortunately, my new set of tools contained an adjustable wrench that was just the tool for the job. As I neared the final turn of the clamp on the terminal, the car’s horn suddenly started blaring. WTF? Then the engine started—all by itself. Then it shut down. And then it started again. Off and on it went in an unending cycle as the horn continued to blare. My neighbor’s lights came on. Flashlight beams scanned my house then my face followed by obscenities even I had never heard before.
As my head hit my bedroom pillow, my brain focused on that dirty repair shop just 7 miles away. The one that I swore I would never enter except under the most dire of circumstances. With a little persuasion I bet I could get them to finish the job for, say, another $200. Yeah, that would bring the total repair bill to just under $1200. Not bad for a week’s work. Or was it two… Maybe I could invent a window with a handle, and a gear, and one chain. Yeah, that would do it. Get a patent. Sell it and get rich.
As I drifted off into dreamland, a police cruiser pulled up. A bullhorn blared: “We have you surrounded. You have one minute to come out with your hands up.”
Yeah, that sounds like something that happened to me a time or three. I have come to realize that getting the job done by someone who knows what he's doing is, in the long run cheaper financially and emotionally (!!!) than trying to do it myself. I have cultivated the mechanic across the alley from my apartment. He's good and not too rapacious...
Excuse Me: Do You Fix Car Windows?
