Shoved to Them
I bravely fought the battle to stay awake before losing it to exhaustion somewhere around 3am. Someone tried my door around 1:30, and while I’m assuming that it was the drunk cowboys who checked in next door, I’ve never been so happy to have rearranged furniture in my life. That table and chair pile might not have stopped anyone, but it would have slowed them down.
Saturday morning was even grayer than Friday had been. The persistent mist had given way to full-fledged rain. I woke up around 6:00 feeling hopeful that Saturday had to be better than Friday night. My husband was on his way with the alternator, and an internet friend (who turned out to be from the area!!!! Hi Kassie!) had recommend a mechanic other than the inebriated Bill. I expected to be back on the road within a few hours, and finally in Houston around lunchtime.
In my wave of cheerful optimism, I tweeted
Sure enough, my phone rang at 7:15. My husband was there. Could I please let him in? Yes, sir, I could!!!!
I dragged the table and chairs out of my path, flung the door open, and wrapped my grateful arms around him! I was so relieved to no longer be alone. In less than 10 minutes, I was dressed, packed, and my stuff was loaded back into the car. I called the mechanic who said he was waiting for me with “a bay open and tools at the ready!” (I love Texas men!)
I climbed up into the Yukon and followed my husband in the Lexus five miles further out into the countryside to the garage. Sure enough, there was the mechanic, John, standing in the bay’s doorway with his mama standing next to him.
While he looked over the car, his mama hugged me and called me “you poor thing.” It was kinda nice to be loved on a little. John gave the car a once over and tested our alternator. He scratched his head, reconnected the tester, and then shook his head again.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but your alternator is working just fine.Sometimes they will come and go as they’re dying, but this one isn’t even doing that. It’s working like it’s supposed to. I’ll call the guy at the Napa place and tell him that he needs to check his tester. I think it’s his tester that’s broken and not your alternator. I can still put in the new one if that’d make you feel better, but I don’t see any need to. I’m going to bet that it was the broken battery connection that set off your light and nothing more.”
I looked at the still-boxed up new alternator that had cost us $300, and then at my husband. “What do you think?” I asked him.
“I think we don’t replace something that’s not broken.” He answered. “Let’s put the alternator in your trunk in case you need it, and then get you on your way. We can return it when you get home.” With that, he kissed me, handed me back the keys, and told me to have fun with the remains of my weekend.
At 9 am, I was back on the road. My radio was cranked up loud and I was feeling fine. I was cruising along at a good clip for just shy of an hour when, just as I got to Huntsville, the battery light came back on.
I cussed a blue streak right then. I’m not gonna lie about that.
I was grateful to be near a good sized town, but I knew that it was still Saturday and most garages were closed or would close at noon. I stopped in the Target parking lot right off the highway and googled Firestone Huntsville. I knew they’d be open if there was one, and there was! A quick five mile detour and I was at yet another mechanic. Luckily, I already had the alternator.
I walked into the store and tried to be upbeat. “Will you install an alternator for me?” I asked. I gave him the Cliff’s Notes version of my story ending with “I’m feeling a little like Gilligan at this moment. This was supposed to be a three hour tour and here I am on day two. Can you help me off this stinking island please?”
He laughed at me and told me he admired my spunk. Then he said the dreaded, “I can’t put that alternator in. Firestone won’t let me install any part that doesn’t come from our supplier. I can get you one by Monday morning, but not before. There’s not much call for Lexus parts out here.” He did offer to hook my car up to the tester to verify that it really was the alternator after all, so I let him.
After a few minutes me told me “Here’s the deal – Lexus cars are persnickety. They like their numbers to be exactly right. Your battery is full at 12, and your alternator is charging it at 13.8-13.9. You car wants it to be at 14.0 so your light is coming on. You have plenty of charge to get to Houston and back home again, and then I’d take it to your mechanic there.”
I stood there uncertainly until he finished with, “If you were my wife, I’d kiss you good-bye and tell you to have fun with your girlfriend.”
Reassured, I left the parking lot. Still, there was a niggling doubt somewhere deep down. As I drove back towards the highway, I saw another garage and pulled in to get a second opinion. He said almost exactly what the Firestone man had said, ending with “If you were my wife, I’d tell you to go and I wouldn’t worry about you at all. Have a good weekend and get it looked after once you’re home.”
That settled it. I was going. These experts would trust their wives in my car, so I confidently turned my car towards Houston once again.
One thing I’ve learned from all of this? If a man says that if you were his wife that he’d let you go, perhaps you should make sure he likes his wife. These two men clearly didn’t.
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