Vehicular Malice

My reliable Angus rarely lets me down. I purchased this vehicle not for its glamour (for it has little) but because I needed a workhorse. As a daily commuter logging 78 miles per day, I needed a reliable car that could power through in all manner of weather and road conditions. A sexy convertible appeals much more to my flamboyant nature but for the intent purpose of this car purchase, I had to make a more practical selection. It was a good choice.

In the 21 months since I bought Angus, he's proven well worth the investment. My end of the bargain requires that I take him in for regular service every 3500 miles; he gets me from point A to B without a hiccup. It's been a mutually satisfying relationship.

Until recently.

Two weeks ago during the bi-monthly grocery haul at an uber-Stop & Shop in Westchester, Angus' battery died. The engine wouldn't turn over. I had to beg a fellow shopper to help me jump the battery (whilst grateful for the fact I had jumper cables with me). Over the next few days, the situation became hit or miss. Some days the car would start; other times it would not. With jumper cables in hand and a pathetic plea painted on my face, I cajoled multiple strangers and work colleagues to help me get poor old Angus started.

At the risk of sounding like a cowed, defenseless woman, the truth is I often ride in the car alone. I was nervous about being stranded somewhere if the car completely failed. I took Angus into a local service station in Connecticut. They checked the battery; they checked the alternator. Both were fine. Something was draining the battery but the source was unknown. I hate unknowns--give me a tangible!

I finally scheduled a service appointment at Angus' spiritual home at the Honda dealership in Manhattan. When I got to the garage this morning, Angus' battery was dead again. Ahmed jump started the battery for me. I drove to the dealership and as if on cue, the battery died once I rolled in. I walked into the service center to arrange service with the rep and who should be waiting for me? Oy. It was Hector. He eyeballed me with knowing disdain.

I had a poor experience with Hector the last time I was in the garage. Curiously, after that experience, the Honda dealership had called me to participate in a customer satisfaction survey. In that discussion, I lambasted Hector. I was sure he knew I had slammed him. Fuck.

We discussed the situation with the battery. Hector assured me the highly trained mechanics at Honda would diagnose the problem. I swear his lip curled when he said that.

During the day, I had horrific images of Hector sabotaging Angus. I was on conference calls all day so when I finally had a break, I breathlessly called Hector. There was desperation in my voice, I know, when Hector finally picked up. "How's Angus?" I cried, "what's the problem?" "Oh it's the battery," he said blandly. I relayed the diagnosis I had received from the service center in Connecticut. How can it be the battery? "Well we have a special diagnostic analysis that we do and we know its the battery," he retorted coolly. All I could think is, you are so full of shit.

I dashed out of work at 5:30 to get to the garage. I was in fear for my vehicle.

When I arrived at the service center, Hector was nowhere to be seen. I admit I am no heavy weight when it comes to understanding automotive particulars but I understand enough to know that you can't bullshit me about unnecessary service that doesn't solve my problem. I need a clear and thorough explanation and Hector did not provide that. I saw an alternative service rep and I appealed my case to him. Explain it clearly to me; I need to have some confidence. This rep, a rather attractive man named Byron (think younger Denzel Washington), was charm itself. And he did explain it to me. Using Honda specific diagnostic tools they were able to see that the electrical system and alternator were fine; one of the seven cells of the battery was defective, preventing the flow throughout the battery. He almost over explained it to me but he was so pretty to look at, I listened intently. The battery had been replaced, my warranty covered all the expense (imagine getting a bill where the cost is $0.00) and I received a thorough explanation from Mr. Handsome. And no Hector sabotage. I was on top of the world.

As Angus and I sped uptown on the West Side Highway in the twilight of a chilly night, I felt entirely restored.