I just got back from taking my car in to the dealer for service.

Normally I wouldn't do such a silly thing, but the "Check Engine!" light kept coming on. I normally use a really good local mechanic but they do not have the computer that diagnoses this sort of problem. Only the dealer does.

I don't like taking my car in to the dealer, because every time I do, it seems to cost me about $300.00. Even for an oil change. Oh, it may start out as an oil change, but then the mechanic inevitably comes up to me with a worried look on his face, slowly wiping his hands on a rag. "You're lucky you brought your car in today," he'll say, "when we went to remove the brake fluid container cover I noticed that you had a discombulated fratistat! You could have been stranded!" He never actually says that I would be left stranded on the side of the road in the darkness and freezing rain unless I had someone trained by the dealer changing my oil, not some poor private mechanic who's only been in business for 40 years and who might not have spotted a problem like this. He never actually says that, but tone and facial expressions can communicate a lot.

I, in turn, never ask why he was removing the cover for the brake fluid well, when he was supposed to be changing my oil, because I know better. He always has an answer ready, I'll never understand it, and I always end up giving up and accepting whatever he says.

The mechanics have been trained to see me coming.

Mort [not his real name] elbows Jocko [also not real, that's the name of a monkey] when they see me pull in the drive. "Watch this," says Mort, and he takes my keys, puts the car on the lift, removes the nut in the bottom of the oil pan, cranks off the filter, and lets the system drain. While it's doing this, he walks toward me, slowly wiping his hand on a rag. Jocko appears to be working on another car, but I notice that he is within hearing range, and the boom box is suddenly quiet. "You know, says Mort, "it's lucky you brought your car in today. You need a new back seat right away." "Back seat," I reply, "why would I need a new back seat? The one I have is fine; I never use it." Well," he says, and starts on a long ramble that begins with: "back in the days when cars had distributor caps..." and concludes with "...so it could catch fire at any moment!" Some time between those two phrases I have reached into my pocket, pulled out $300.00 in small unmarked bills, and handed them over to Mort.

He knew I'd have them. It's a ritual we go through every single time.

So, when the "Check Engine Now!" light came on, I knew that Jerry [his real name] wouldn't have the computer to diagnose this one, even though he's a fine mechanic, he charges reasonable prices, and I know where his stack of men's magazines is stored. I knew that I would have to call the dealer.

In fact, I think of the Check Engine Now Or You Might Die!" light as the "Dealer Light". Every once in a while the dealer needs $300.00, it's my turn, a big amber light goes on on my dashboard, and I bring my car in.

I hate idiot lights. I'm a male. I like meters, dials, gauges, toggle switches and adjustment knobs. I want to know my oil pressure, amps, and engine temperature. I don't want a big red light that flashes on, effectively announcing: "Your car just ran out of oil!", which is exactly what oil lights do. Unfortunately, there are 56 million Americans too dumb to read their gauges, so we're stuck with idiot lights, though I know a few people who seem to be walking around a piece of electrical tape on their foreheads, if you catch my drift.

But the light was on, I didn't know what it meant, I have to make a long drive in the near future, and I knew that the longer I waited the more I'd end up shelling out. I wanted to keep my costs a low as possible, to save my remaining money for the vet.

As it happens, my cat Myst (the one who thinks he's Muhammad Ali but fights like a bunny and is too dumb to run) got into yet another fight, and I needed to summon the vet. She makes house calls, as noted here before, so I scheduled the mechanic for 8:00 and the vet for 11:00. Perfect, because the vet is always late, dear lady that she truly is, so I figured I'd have about 3 and a half hours. That should take care of the dealer.

I waited a half an hour for the diagnosis, until the speaker in the waiting room summoned me to the service counter. That is never a good sign.

"Well," the dealer explained, "you have a bad knock sensor." I asked if I could go for a while with the "Check Engine Now Or You Might Die A Horrible Flaming Death!" light on, and he said no. I could be stranded on the side of the road at any time if the whatchamacallit coil does not get any input from the knock sensor. "You see," he began, "back in the days when cars had distributor caps" (and yes, he really did say this) and he kept on talking until I nodded. The car was still in the bay, and Jocko was poised over his tool kit. Mort relayed my nod with his own, and Jocko dropped his rag on the tool cabinet, flicked his tail, and strolled off to the men's room. I dutifully herded myself back to the waiting room where I tried to concentrate on the book I was reading, trapped as I was by a television program about laying tile, and a woman who was using her cell phone to catch up on every boring call she had put off for the last nine years, I think. The dealer promised me that he'd have me out of there in an hour.

Once again, the speaker intoned my name, an hour and twenty minutes later. I strolled to the counter, and was presented with the bill. It was $303.88. I think they're mocking me. I asked about the warranty on the part. Mort looked at me as if he had never heard that question before. He made a phone call, hung up, and announced that the knock sensor had an unlimited mileage warranty for one year. No, I am not making this up.

I wrote the check, pocketed my car key (which was now on a genuine shiny plastic Subaru key fob that I will never use) and headed on back to meet the vet at my house at 11:00. I even had time for some breakfast!

The vet called promptly at 10:58, informed me that she was leaving her house now, and estimated that she would be there in about 40 minutes.

I have my $300.00 ready.

P.S.
I have a nasty cold, I'm going to the dentist to get my teeth deep scaled tomorrow, and I have a guitar in a shop that is suffering from smoke damage because someone threw a Molotov cocktail into the tuxedo shop two stores away, thoroughly burning both adjoining structures. I have to go over to the guitar shop today, to see how bad my expensive guitar now smells. This involves either taking a circuitous route, or driving right past the very same Subaru dealer that I visited earlier this morning. Note To Subaru Dealer: I'm out of money now. It's someone else's turn.