Where is Megan?
I have a post for all of you, who, no doubt, have been huddled breathlessly over your computers, waiting anxiously for a new update on me. I am in Virginia Beach. Working at my summer internship parish, which is fabulous. Or at least, has been fabulous for the past week in which I have been working here. The people are nice, they charge up to me without provocation and yell, "You must be Megan! Our Seminarian! Hi!" and shake my hand vigorously, and try to feed me things with much sugar, fearing for my health. My introverted self appreciates this greatly, since it reduces the amount of energy I have to expend in the transaction.
However, the trip down here was less pleasant. Those of you who know me, are aquainted with The Saga of The Car. It is a sad tale, known to many as a tale of Woe, Weeping and Grief, provoking anger among several, and mirth among few.
There have been casualties, in this Saga.
The most recent chapter begins on my trip down to Virginia, on Friday. I was driving the exalted 1989 blue Ford Tempo, celebrated in saga and song, and owner of 200,000 miles. It had been purchased for me by my parents, from a friend of a friend, who was a mechanic. Earlier, let the reader understand, the car had died in Trenton, in the middle of an intersection. Earlier, it has also ceased to function several times on one simple trip to church. Earlier, judging from these, and other experiences, we had replaced the distributor, and hoped for the best. I had now had the car for a week.
I stopped for a soda (because the AC had also ceased to function, joining the fuel tank lid, the rear window and the gas gauge) and the car decided that it would travel no farther. It would not start. Here the cursing begins.
I found the mechanic at the rest stop's gas station, who tried to jump the car. "It's interesting," he said. "Y'know, the starter's not even trying to fire. How long have you had this thing?" "About a week." I said. He looked at me, the way one looks at a horse with a broken leg, and tries to remember where one left the shotgun. "Ah. See, you got a couple options. You say you just replaced the distributor? Either on the drive over here you broke the distributor again, or the car's junked." "Ah," I replied. "Fuck." "Yeah," he said.
So I called AAA, and my father. AAA came, after 4 hours of sitting with the car, in the lovely environs of the I-95 Delaware Turnpike rest stop. After this extended period of time, the man got the car to start up again. His advice? "Don't turn off the car again."
"But I kinda think that I might need to, at some point." I said.
"Well, how far you gotta go?"
"Virginia Beach."
He scratched his chin. "Yeah, ok. When you gotta get gas, or somethin', just leave the car runnin'. Cause if you turn it off, it ain't gonna turn back on."
"What happens when I get to the beach?"
"Yeah, then you gonna have a problem."
Luckily (or not) then my father arrived, with the red minivan. The Tempo still running (and Al Gore still weeping for the fossil fuel I was wasting), he helpfully advised me on how I should be showing more gratitude for the car (Tempo!) I had been given, since we were going for 'minimal functionality,' something evidently not including the power to stop or start at will, or to follow any of the Fire Marshal's regulations regarding how to safely fuel a vehicle. He did, however, agree to exchange cars with me for the duration of the trip, until such time as the Tempo's temper was soothed somewhat. This was possibly prompted by my assertion that I was not leaving the Damn State of Delaware with that Damn Car, because I feared it would try to kill me in my sleep. Or something. Dad has Decided The Car Will Work, and who, after all, is the car to argue back?
So I continued on to Virginia Beach, where I now operate a large red Ford Windstar. It starts. It stops. It has AC. It has operational brakes. Opening the fuel tank doesn't require pulling on free hanging wires in the trunk....I LOVE THIS CAR.
However, the trip down here was less pleasant. Those of you who know me, are aquainted with The Saga of The Car. It is a sad tale, known to many as a tale of Woe, Weeping and Grief, provoking anger among several, and mirth among few.
There have been casualties, in this Saga.
The most recent chapter begins on my trip down to Virginia, on Friday. I was driving the exalted 1989 blue Ford Tempo, celebrated in saga and song, and owner of 200,000 miles. It had been purchased for me by my parents, from a friend of a friend, who was a mechanic. Earlier, let the reader understand, the car had died in Trenton, in the middle of an intersection. Earlier, it has also ceased to function several times on one simple trip to church. Earlier, judging from these, and other experiences, we had replaced the distributor, and hoped for the best. I had now had the car for a week.
I stopped for a soda (because the AC had also ceased to function, joining the fuel tank lid, the rear window and the gas gauge) and the car decided that it would travel no farther. It would not start. Here the cursing begins.
I found the mechanic at the rest stop's gas station, who tried to jump the car. "It's interesting," he said. "Y'know, the starter's not even trying to fire. How long have you had this thing?" "About a week." I said. He looked at me, the way one looks at a horse with a broken leg, and tries to remember where one left the shotgun. "Ah. See, you got a couple options. You say you just replaced the distributor? Either on the drive over here you broke the distributor again, or the car's junked." "Ah," I replied. "Fuck." "Yeah," he said.
So I called AAA, and my father. AAA came, after 4 hours of sitting with the car, in the lovely environs of the I-95 Delaware Turnpike rest stop. After this extended period of time, the man got the car to start up again. His advice? "Don't turn off the car again."
"But I kinda think that I might need to, at some point." I said.
"Well, how far you gotta go?"
"Virginia Beach."
He scratched his chin. "Yeah, ok. When you gotta get gas, or somethin', just leave the car runnin'. Cause if you turn it off, it ain't gonna turn back on."
"What happens when I get to the beach?"
"Yeah, then you gonna have a problem."
Luckily (or not) then my father arrived, with the red minivan. The Tempo still running (and Al Gore still weeping for the fossil fuel I was wasting), he helpfully advised me on how I should be showing more gratitude for the car (Tempo!) I had been given, since we were going for 'minimal functionality,' something evidently not including the power to stop or start at will, or to follow any of the Fire Marshal's regulations regarding how to safely fuel a vehicle. He did, however, agree to exchange cars with me for the duration of the trip, until such time as the Tempo's temper was soothed somewhat. This was possibly prompted by my assertion that I was not leaving the Damn State of Delaware with that Damn Car, because I feared it would try to kill me in my sleep. Or something. Dad has Decided The Car Will Work, and who, after all, is the car to argue back?
So I continued on to Virginia Beach, where I now operate a large red Ford Windstar. It starts. It stops. It has AC. It has operational brakes. Opening the fuel tank doesn't require pulling on free hanging wires in the trunk....I LOVE THIS CAR.
posted by Dajjimeg at
1:17 PM
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