Shredded

For two weeks, an auto mechanic at a generic four bay repair joint on Northern Boulevard and 88th Street in Queens tried to fix two simple things on our Ford. The trunk latch which would not lock. And the battery light kept coming on when the car was idling, indicating that the alternator was not charging the battery properly (and this happened to us, too, 10 months ago and the car died on the Palisades Parkway, so it had to be taken care of.)

The more the guys at the shop worked on the car, the worse it got. The trunk button, when pushed, would click over and over again. The trunk would not lock. When I showed this to the mechanic, he tweaked if for a second. It worked once. Never worked again.

They replaced the alternator twice. Then the battery. Still, they could not get it to work properly. All the while, they were running off to chop shops, getting faulty refurbished parts that simply did not work. And they continued to charge me more and more money. Finally, I saw the game and realized they were going to keep me there forever, diagnosing, making a mess of things until I was living in a cardboard box near CitiField.

So I complained to the evening guy in charge, quite a bit, said I was taking my car back and bringing it to my brother’s Ford Dealership in New Jersey and that I wanted a large credit back on my card. The evening guy called the owner, told him the story, put his hand over the receiver and said, “Give me a number.”

So I was dealing with negotiation over a return of money for the work they did not do, the further mess they made of things. I gave him a fair number, which was about ¾ of the amount. No budging. I was told I had to come see the owner the next morning.

Which I did. And I made my case. And he gave me a credit back for almost the full ¾. Meanwhile, I went out to NJ with the Ford. Left it with my brother, got my parents’ car they leave at my sister’s house for when they come up to visit.

Went upstate and had a fabulous time in Ancram. Southern Columbia County. Certainly. On the way home, in my parents’ car, near Peekskill on the Taconic, I heard this thumping and I thought, “It’s not me. I always think it’s me but it’s not me.”
And I looked at the cars in my rearview mirror, seeing them approach, knowing the sound would get louder and louder because it must be, for sure, them, and not me. And it did get louder and louder and the car started to shake.

Total tire blow out. Like instant rubber garbage.

Side of the road, hiding behind the guard rail. Calling Triple A. The Taconic is set up so that Triple A cannot do any towing. The State troopers have to call in someone (and then Triple A reimburses. Whatever. Mob. Mob. Mob. This East coast. Everyone fighting for their revenue.)

Nice Trooper came and checked on us. Set up flares. Ten minutes later, nice tow guy changed our tire right on the side of the road, using his huge truck as a tank-block for protection.

We got off fine.

Strange car Karma. Some sort of sign, like, “You are kind of stuck and you need to fix shit up.”

I do not believe too much in that stuff---but what was rather freaky is the car shredded its tire EXACTLY at the exit off the Taconic where I was born. Sort of saying, “Go back. Start at the beginning.”