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Cars

A Tale of Transportation Woes

I'm suing my wife under the Massachusetts Lemon & Lime law. I'm hoping for a large “pain & suffering” settlement so I can afford a limo-driver the rest of my damaged-days on this god-forsaken planet because I now Hate ( we'll substitute the word “Prune” for the F-bomb throughout this essay) Prunin' Cars!

Here's the maze-like backdrop: Last month, we bought my wife a 2007 grey Entourage, our first new used-car purchase in ten years. It has all the bells-and-whistles including a sunglasses-holder. My wife loves it!
We gave my 1997 black Lumina to my son-in -law who euthanized his 1995 red Chevy truck. It was a bittersweet exchange because the Black Beauty and I shared almost 190,000 miles of road together. Tears flowed like the proverbial waterfall as I removed the orange Tic-Tacs, loose change, and small hand-gun from the glove-compartment.
For $1, I bought my wife's 1998 green Voyager van, 93,000 miles young with a virtually spotless repair-record. For ten years it's been coddled, driven nine miles to work five days a week with an occasional vacation jaunt to Cape Cod or New Hampshire.
I tried to get the relationship with the Voyager off to a good start: a nice bath and waxing at Ernie's Car Wash ; vacuuming the candy-wrappers from Halloween 2003; playing my Barry Manilow cassettes. But something felt amiss.
Two days later, we failed the emissions-test at inspection due to a rotted wire. Cost to repair $700.
Two days later, we won't start at all and get towed to a repair-shop two blocks away. Bob the Mechanic told me the Computer had died. Estimated cost to repair $1000 with a 5-day wait for parts and installation:
“I didn't even know we were Prunin' on-line,” I exclaimed to my daughter as she drove me to work.
(Sidebar: I love it when mechanics feel the need to show you the broken part. I view it with the same puzzlement as a trip to Museum of Contemporary Art. I'm reminded of a time as a young supermarket store manager when a customer tossed me a package of chicken she was returning:
“Smell it. It's terrible,” she exclaimed.
“I don't need to smell it. I take your word for it,” I replied.)
Needing a mode of transportation for five days, I hitched a ride to my son's college and borrowed his 2000 blue Taurus. Two days later, coming home from therapy, white smoke rose from its hood like we were electing a new Pope. I barely made it to Bob the Mechanic's garage. Diagnosis: Frayed air-conditioner belt; Estimated cost to repair $400.
“You have my entire collection of Prunin' cars. I need something to get to work,” I exclaimed.
Bob let me borrow the Parts-Truck. It rumbled like an October thunderstorm. I had to build up a head of steam to jump into the driver's side. I had to tie the boys secure to the pick-up's bed when I drove them to school in the morning. I started to speed-up at Deer Crossings and hum the theme-song from The Beverly Hillbillies.
Meanwhile, my wife bought $100 Foster Grants for her new holder. My lawyer (actually a Deli clerk who's studying for the bar-exam) suggested we keep the relationship strictly “conjugal” during the initial proceedings. He told me to expect a tough cross-examination about my history with cars:
(Explanation: When I turned 16, my Dad , who drove thirty minutes out of his way each morning to take me to Notre Dame High School, brought me to a car-lot.
“Pick one you like,” he said calmly.
I picked a shiny 1970 canary-yellow Tornado. Dad bought it on the spot.
“ Let me explain something, son. I never want to have to Prunin' take you anywhere again,”Dad exclaimed and tossed me the keys.)
I'm back with the Voyager but we're both just going through the motions. Yesterday, my son-in-law stopped by with the Black Beauty. He's installed giant speakers and striped floor-mats. He told me to take it for a spin for old-times' sake.
A block away, you guessed it, a Prunin' flat tire!

Submitted by bardofaisle9 on Sunday, November 09, 2008 (04:13:43) (704 reads)

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