02.04.2002 - Topical

This week's column is more like a diary entry than a column. Slap me if I decide to do this again. Here it is:

The pleasure and pain of an automobile

During Spring quarter of my freshman year, I had the opportunity to serve on a student panel to answer questions from potential Aggies about life here at UC Davis. With the sage-like wisdom my twenty weeks of getting fat on grilled cheese sandwiches at the Dining Commons and rarely exploring the campus outside of the pleasantly manure scented Tercero dorms, I gave the kids tips about what they could expect should they choose to attend this fine university. The question that invariably popped up during each of my brilliant portrayals of Someone Who Actually Knows What He's Talking About was "if I come here, will I need a car?" I explained that aside from the fact that it's easy to single out the poor sap in the dorms who has the wonderful combination of an automobile and an inability to say "no," Davis is very bike friendly and has a wonderful bus system. These things make having a car totally unnecessary. Of course, three weeks later, I bought a car. Sometimes I look back at my freshman year and shriek in horror at my idiocy, but other times I wish I had heeded the advice I gave and spent my time in Davis sans-automobile.

Don't get me wrong-- I enjoy being able to drive. My car affords me the luxury to work in another town, chauffeur my drunk friends on 3:00 AM Del Taco runs and occasionally head home to prove to The Moms that I'm still alive. These may seem like trivial things, but when my car dies, my life goes straight to Hell quicker than Hitler on the Unholy Concorde to 666 Beelzebub Place.

Lately, I've been roasting nicely, as my car has been flakier than a deadbeat dad with leprosy. In the last year, I’ve had to replace the brake pads, rotors, alternator, battery, belts, hoses and the entire cooling system not once, but twice. If you’re looking for a sure-fire diet, try getting an unreliable vehicle. The knot I get in my stomach from worrying about whether or not my car will start when I try to leave for school or work in the morning regularly keeps me from eating. This is probably a good thing, because any money I would have otherwise spent on food goes directly into car repairs.

Things probably wouldn’t be so bad if I had even a modicum of knowledge about automotive maintenance. I must have been home watching “The Price Is Right” and pretending to be sick the day my school taught the guys how to fix things, because I somehow have less mechanical ability than a thumbless Amish child. As such, I'm at the mercy of double-dealing mechanics whenever I run into car troubles.

You’d sooner find John Ashcroft stoned out of his gourd at a Snoop Dogg show than you’d find an honest automobile repairman in Davis. It’s difficult to blame them for their duplicity though. I’m sure parts pitching to college students in an effort to mine their parents’ deep pockets is very profitable. The problem in my case is that we’re not likely to catch mommy’s pockets quoting Nietzsche anytime soon, so turning home for help is rarely an option. I have to rely on my limited student’s budget to make sure my vehicle is in working order. A disproportionately large amount of that budget goes directly to one of Davis’ many malevolent mechanics.

Picking up the phone to hear the damages from the shop always scares me worse than the first time I saw my brother naked. Usually the fear stems from the fact that if I lose my car, a horrific chain reaction will ensue. Without a car, I’d lose my job, which would render me incapable of paying my rent. This would make me a prime candidate to end up like Chris Farley’s Motivational Speaker character living in a van down by the river, except I wouldn’t be able to get my van to run long enough to make it down to the river.

It doesn’t help that the mechanic usually sounds like a cut-rate kidnapper. In hushed tones, he declares, "we have your vehicle. Bring two hundred unmarked non-sequential twenty dollar bills or you’ll never see your car again." Each time, I quickly calculate how long I’ll have to go without eating to pay for the repairs, then begrudgingly head down to the shop so the service manager can convert my ignorance about car maintenance into a new hot tub for himself.

The more money I pour into my car, the more I think about how my life would be if I decided to forgo the purchase of a car to experience life in Davis via bike, bus and foot. Not having a car may have saved me enough money to buy my own third world country and would have prevented me from sprouting an ulcer bigger than P. Diddy’s ego, but it would have also stripped me of considerable freedom. Once you’ve tasted that freedom, it’s nearly impossible to go back. I’d rather not have to sell my body on the corner of Russell and Sycamore every night in exchange for the privilege to get from point “A” to point “B” with the most ease possible, but I’ve proven time and time again that I will.

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If you know of any trustworthy local auto shops or happen to have a spare automobile to give to JEFFY e-mail him at jeffy@diaryland.com and he will name his first born child after you.