Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Whenever a Saab is manufactured, there is cause for celebration and marvel, the likes of which are normally reserved for documenting the birth of exotic animals. The process may, in fact, lend itself to scholarly scrutiny for decades to come, but here are the highlights: the engine comes from Germany, the transmission system from Japan, the frame itself possibly from Australia, and all the parts congregate in a Swedish factory where, in the heart of Nordic country, a car is born, and at the end of the assembly line sits a fellow who professionally fucks shit up. That’s what the placard says, anyway–Professional Shit Fucker Upper, Esq.
My car ate it again yesterday evening, this time in front of the downtown Ritz, right in the parking circle during a business meeting. I was standing at the bar, mojito clutched in hand, ever thankful the establishment had the good graces to purchase mint leaves, when the valet scurried over and discreetly informed me that something was wrong. One of the staff must’ve jiggled the smart key just so, effectively locking the steering column and rendering the automobile inoperable. As far as venues go, there are far worse places for a Saab to sit lifeless, I suppose, and I can only hope it puttered out really classy-like and died, perhaps, in French.
Moments later I was in the driver’s seat, cursing my ill fortune and turning both key and wheel hither and yon, praying to God that something would disengage. Then I looked up and there, not a foot away from the hood, appeared Hap seemingly out of nowhere, waving and grinning, and I can only conclude she is the albatross of cartastrophe. I thought back to the recent incident and wondered whether this would happen every month.
One of the more immediate concerns is whether to heckle the Ritz for towing and repair costs. Is $160 worth the time? Is a claim ticket enough documentation to pursue this avenue? Certainly my car was temperamental beforehand, but even so it was working fine until I handed my key to the valet who, according to one of the more junior staffers, had “over ten years of valet experience,” which apparently translates into the ability to park expertly in anywhere but the actual garage.
The larger issue, of course, is what to do with the car. During a routine oil change last week, this very question became the topic of discussion. Dutch recommended I sell it, set it on fire and collect the insurance payout, or keep it and indirectly fund a Harvard education for his children. Well, I’m writing off yesterday’s episode to valet incompetence. There’s got to be another 60,000 miles left on this thing. Right? I guess this means I’m taking “Pahk the cah in the Hahvahd Yahd” for a couple thousand dollars, Mr. Trebek.