Small Victories

When I went to pick up my car at the body shop from its being wrecked at the repair shop, it was running.  They said the battery had been pulled down while they were working on it and just needed to charge some, and so that was why they had the engine going.  I accepted that explanation, transferred the money from the other driver's insurance company to the body shop, and pulled around to the repair shop to take care of the bill for the original repair it had gone in for so long ago before some lovely person tried to drive over with his truck and trailer, and when I got back in to crank it and go, it did not want to start.  I finally got it to crank and was pulling away, but I thought better of leaving with a problem still present, changed gears, drove back into the parking space and went back inside.

This is the part that would ultimately make me lose the gentle patience I usually use with most people.  (Don't you laugh.  Don't you dare laugh.  It's my story.  I will craft it as I see fit.)

I asked the guys behind the service counter to check the battery.  That had, after all, been a part of the original problem since the fog lights had been coming on by themselves and pulling the system down.  The whole battery had been stone dead at least four times, and I don't know how long it had been sitting in the dealership lot waiting on adjusters and so forth with the drain pulling on it.  I told them I was perfectly willing to get a new battery if it needed it.  One of the guys came out, got it to crank, basically verbally patted me on the head and told me it would be fine if I just drove it some, told me "to have my husband" put it on the charger, and that was the end of it.  It was the classic Southern male thing that always makes my blood boil and makes me feel like I am about fifteen years old again.

The car proceeded to die in the Lowe's parking lot.  And then in my parent's yard.  And then at my house.  Multiple times.  And then at the AutoZone I took it to in Newton to get a new battery where I was told that basically nobody BUT the dealership can change it in my car because of the silly placement of that part in my make and model.  And then at the gas station on the way back to the dealership Monday morning....  The Cuchulain red haze of frothing battle madness was descending.

Add to this that I found in the parking lot of Lowe's, my first stop after the dealership, that my driver's side door no longer locked and unlocked with anything except direct application of key in lock and I think you can understand why I was on my way back to them at 7:15 yesterday.  After I jumped it off at the gas station (and folks, if you don't own a jump box, I can wholeheartedly endorse your purchasing one), I was ready to destroy any living creature who got patronizing with me.  I had spent a great deal of the drive in telling myself to be firm but not rude, because, of course, there is no situation that really warrants rudeness.

And so I just told the guy when he asked, innocently, what he could do for me that bright morning.  I wasn't hateful, but I laid it out.  I guess I probably sounded like I would have with a student who had crossed that last line with me.  And when he told me that the battery was no problem but that he'd have to schedule an appointment for me to see about the door, I felt my head do that sideways tilt thing that any student of mine could have told you meant "serious ish" was about to go down.  I told him that I needed my car as soon as possible since the problems that I had come to address were NOT problems that it had rolled onto that lot with, not problems that it had had BEFORE it was wrecked sitting there minding its own business and that I wanted it dealt with.  And then, then, I went and sat down in the waiting area, called Mom on the phone and told her to come get me out of there NOW.

I was so mad.  SO MAD.  I had to vent off some of it by just jiggling my foot for about ten minutes.  I guess I need to pack a squeezy ball or something on trips like that.  I felt a migraine try to start up, but that double dosage of Topamax choked that off nicely, and it abated.  About fifteen minutes after I left the back, I saw a mechanic go out, try to open the door (he had to use the key.  HA.), try to crank it (and it wouldn't start.  Double HA.), go back and get their jump box and pull it into the shop.  I was a little surprised to see them already working on it but pleased.  Mom arrived not long after that, and we left.  We ran some errands and got home about forty minutes later.

I had just enough time to let the dogs out, put my iPod on charge, and get my laptop open when my phone rang.  They had the car done.  Did I want to pick it up?  I almost fell off the couch.  Mom came back down, and I loaded back up and went back to town.

When I walked into the service center, the little guy was talking to somebody else, so I stood patiently for a few minutes waiting.  I was dreading hassling with the bill.  I did not want to pay for the door thing.  I didn't think it was fair for me to have to pay for something that had been working when I came in and was magically NOT working when I left, but I was afraid it was going to be a mess to convince them of that.  When he finished with the other customer, he saw me and greeted me.  He picked up my bill and looked at it and said, "Ah yes.  That's going to be eight hundred dollars."  And then I guess he saw my face.  "Kidding.  I'm kidding.  Please don't hit me.  I'm a bleeder.  Oompa Loompas like me are bleeders...." (He only came up to my shoulder.)

He handed me the bill.  It took me a minute to make sense of what I was seeing.  The total was $212.00, but then it was zeroed out.  I asked him about the bit with the door wiring.  "I don't have to pay for this?"

He said, "You don't have to pay for any of it.  It's taken care of."  And he grinned.

They'd done the whole thing gratis.  Suddenly all the numbers managed to resolve themselves into something that made sense.  Suddenly I managed to be able to smile, too, for the first time since I had heard my vehicle had been hit.  I thanked them and went out to where Mom was parked near my car.  I got in and Mom rolled her windows down.  "Check EVERYTHING before we leave," she said.

She needn't have worried.  That was already in my plans.  I did, and it was all working.  I can't tell you how good it felt to roll off that lot in my little car and know that it was sound again.  I can't tell you how nice it was to have them not stick me, to have them take care of it in the right way.  So few places do what is right anymore, and I appreciate more than I can say that they bothered to do it.  It saved them a customer.  I can absolutely tell you that.

I also felt good that I had stuck up for myself.  I made it known that I wasn't happy.  I didn't tuck that feeling inside and sit on it, didn't pretend it didn't matter, didn't meekly accept whatever was handed to me, didn't wait for the "appointment to fix my door" when that would have been a type of injustice.  I wasn't rude, didn't rage, wasn't unChristian or one of those people who you have to be embarrassed to be near in a public location because they're sort of off their rocker.  I had a situation in which I had a genuine right to be displeased with something, and I had handled it appropriately.  I had gotten results that were better than I actually had even bothered to hope for.  That was a victory to me.

When it was all done, I went to run a necessary errand (cat food.  Yoda would have smacked me around had I not gone), and when I switched the car off in the Wal-Mart parking lot, I waited a moment and then recranked it.  There was not one moment's hesitation or pause.  It was a flawless and instant ignition.  Funny how you come to take that for granted....until it stops happening.  Funny how when it stops happening for long enough it can become a small victory all of its own when you get it back again.