Tuesday, November 18, 2008

One day, when it’s older, I’ll sit my 9-3 down and explain what, exactly, it should and shouldn’t do during a recession, because clearly it doesn’t understand right now. It ate shit last week, almost as if it were at a Sizzler, and in the final accounting it swallowed a cool $1,500. What came free with the parts and service was a realization that prior 9-3s may have been lovingly built by a legion of industrious Swedish people, gatekeepers of secret Nordic know-how about car manufacturing, but the most I can ask these days from a GM-owned Saab is that they corral all the Swedes based in Detroit and put them to work.

Another plus from this whole experience, assuming tomorrow goes smoothly, is I may have found a trustworthy local mechanic. You know something is special when a loaner jacket is offered initially–and turned down because I’m warmed primarily by “C” batteries–followed by a real loaner car: a big, red Jeep Cherokee plucked straight from the ’80s, 151,436 miles young, seemingly crafted exclusively with 90-degree angles. It was at best a glorious 4WD chariot for John Hughes in his heyday, though more likely it was used to run moonshine under cover of darkness.

“It’s not pretty,” proclaimed Dutch as he walked me through the basics, including how to interpret the fickle engine light, “but it’ll get the job done.”

It was essentially a time machine. No power windows or power seats or power locks, temperature measured in increments of red, cigarette lighter cap missing, stained passenger seat, creaky doors, and a speedometer that maxed out at 85 mph, probably because they wouldn’t discover the other 85 miles for another decade or so. I was handed what I can only assume doubled as GPS back then–a liquid black compass ball keychain.

But the feel of the vehicle was great. There was a straightforward logic behind everything. None of the subtle, sleek, weaksauce automatic crap endemic to today’s aesthetic. Maybe the speedometer only goes so high because you don’t need to drive any faster. Neglect to buckle your seatbelt? A shrill warning noise sounds. Forget to turn off the headlights? The same Pavlovian slap on the ears. I tell you, by the time evening rolled around, I was strapped in and cranking all the right handles before the car even started. Even small things, like the turn signal lever, had a solid, purposeful weight behind it. With the Saab, I can never feel the blinker turn on, and it’s like, “May I please go right?” With the Cherokee? Left, muh’fuckah. A few honest turns later, I pulled into my driveway under a brilliant cloudless night sky, feeling at home. Aligned. And that always means catastrophe is right around the corner.