Okay, so I'm writing this Monday evening to be published on Tuesday. My head still feels like someone stuffed it full of wool socks and turned the dryer on. My eyes are swollen and there's something dripping out of my nose that I can only assume is my brain.
Plus? No car yet.
Saturday morning, I bring the car into Midas to have the brakes fixed. The brake pedal was pushing all the way to the floor, so I knew it was an issue.
"It will be about 3 hours", the manager says. This makes sense – the place is packed. We say okay, and walk over to a place called Mimi's for lunch. We take our time and then walk back to Midas. It's only about two miles from our house, so Amy decides just to walk home. I decide to hang out and play with my iPhone. It is noon. I don't have to leave to go to Britt's until 7:30 that night. Plenty of time!
One o'clock rolls around. My car sits outside, lonely, pleading for someone to check her brakes and give her an oil change while she's at it.
Two o'clock. A clean, normal-looking, well adjusted, grease-free mechanic gets into my car and drives it into the bay. Oh wait, the glare of the sun was playing tricks on my eyes. He's none of those things.
Three o'clock. The wheels are off. I stroll around to the bay and see if cobwebs have managed to grow between my car and the ground yet.
Three thirty. The manager, Ron, tells me that the brakes are fine. It's actually the master cylinder that needs replacement, and that's the reason the pedal is pushing all the way to the floor like that. A quick search on my iPhone confirms that this is the possibility, so I give him the go ahead. He orders the part from one of the many part stores around here.
Four o'clock. They're actually working on it. Three of them are testing the brakes now, with one of them in the car, up in the air, pumping the brakes while the others open a valve on each brake to watch fluid arc like a wino's pee to the ground.
Four fifteen. The manager is furious. Apparently the part supplier sent them a faulty master cylinder. He calls them and tells them that he needs a new one immediately.
Five o'clock. No master cylinder yet. This Midas is supposed to close right now, but the manager assures me that they'll stay open until they fix it. One of the other mechanics walks in and informs the manager that he was waiting on a coil pack for a minivan since two and never got it, from the same part supplier. The manager calls the part supplier and says words that even made me blush.
Five thirty. Still nothing. I have memorized every sign and magazine in the waiting room. I haven't had anything to drink since noon, and I can feel a sore throat and runny nose developing.
Six o'clock. The manager calls the part supplier and gets the manager or owner on the line. He explains the situation eloquently, punctuated with "fuck" and "cocksucker" every other word. I fear that the manager's head may explode.
Six fifteen. The parts supplier shows up and delivers the coil pack. "We don't have any master cylinders for that car left", he shouts as he sprints back to the truck and drives off before the manager can kill him. The mechanic informs the manager that the coil pack they delivered is the wrong one. This time, I really think his head is going to spontaneously combust. He promises me a rental car until they can get it fixed. This Midas has a relationship with the local Enterprise which is right around the corner. He can just call them and they'll come get me.
Oh wait. They close at six on Saturdays.
Six thirty. The manager has secured a rental car at the Orlando International Airport. Which is forty fucking minutes away. And I get to ride with one of the mechanics all the way there!
Seven thirty. I get the car. I drive a million miles an hour home, pick up Amy and friends, and we head off to Britt's only an hour late.
Britt's house: She made me chicken wings! You know, that food that you have to eat with your hands? That I can't do! I gorge on brownies and pretzels instead.
To be continued once I get my fucking car . . ..
